


Memories Make the Man

by pixiedustatsundown, spaceaas



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Muggle, Amnesia, Angst with a Happy Ending, Break Up, Draco Malfoy & Pansy Parkinson Friendship, Endgame Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Established Relationship, Implied/Referenced Cheating, M/M, Memory Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-09-07 07:01:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 50,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20305357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pixiedustatsundown/pseuds/pixiedustatsundown, https://archiveofourown.org/users/spaceaas/pseuds/spaceaas
Summary: Draco doesn't know what he is doing here. He doesn't remember this house, this life, this husband. After waking up in the hospital with the last five years of his memory lost, all he wants is to go home with his parents. But there is something about Harry, something in his eyes, something he wants to explore. So now here he is, lost in a life he doesn't remember and having to relearn what it means to be Draco Malfoy.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings: **memory loss, amnesia, infidelity (mentioned only), angst, angst with a happy ending, established relationship (not for long though), break up, break up and getting back together, Pansy&Draco friendship, Draco/Blaise, Draco/Harry, alternative universe - no magic, alternative universe - muggle
> 
> **Author’s Note: **  
This is by far the biggest thing I ever wrote, and it wouldn’t have been possible without Emily, who patiently listened to my ramblings and thoughts and offered her own brilliant ideas. So thank you, for bearing with me!  
I also want to thank my beta, for cleaning this up and actually making this readable.  
Next I want to thank my co-creator, for the marvellous art, I love every single piece.  
And finally, a thank you at the mods, for organising this whole thing.  
You are all wonderful and lovely people. This has been such a wonderful experience and much fun to write.
> 
> **Artist’s Note: **  
Despite not being familiar with _The Vow_, this has been a fun and fulfilling experience, one I hope that each of you enjoy the product of as much as (or even more than) I did working with my partner to create it.  
Some thank-you’s are in order - first, to V and K for bearing with me and my ramblings about doing the arts. Second, I want to thank my collaborator for giving me such a brilliant and beautiful story to work with. Most importantly, I want to thank the mods for making all of this possible and always being open and available to us.

Draco lays in the snow, motionless, silent.

* * *

_Harry loves bookstores. There is always something new and interesting to discover in the assortment of books and stories. They had been safe spaces throughout his childhood and even now, when he doesn’t need them to be a shelter anymore, he likes to lose himself between the shelves and forget about the world for a moment. Today he needs to forget something, just for a little while. _

_From experience he knows that forgetting about fund-raisers is unfortunately different from not having to go. Still, he tries. This is one of the draw backs of running an orphanage; a certain need for publicity - which includes fund-raisers. Also, all kind of administrative tasks that would drive Harry crazy in no time but thankfully his assistant, Jaime, takes care of those. Harry is largely free to focus on the enjoyable part, spending time with the children. He plays with them, teaches them to cook or play the guitar, is there whenever they need to talk. But every now and then he is forced to attend tedious events such as fund-raisers. Harry hates them, full of rich people pretending to care about the children when they clearly don’t, stuffy clothes and not one honest smile. Nevertheless, Jaime has reminded him about yet another event coming up. Harry plans to take refuge here, submerging himself in the peaceful atmosphere. _

_Instead, however, he has Hermione on the phone, going on and on about that thing she wants him to do. To be honest, he isn’t listening. Hermione is wonderful, and Harry feels guilty for not paying attention, but right now he just wants some time to properly lose himself. Surely she will understand. _

_“Mione I’m sorry but I can’t right now. I’m actually in that bookstore you mentioned recently. You were right, it’s lovely. I’ll call you back though, or you can just tell me at dinner Thursday, okay?” That should do it, should bring him some peace. He forgot to consider Hermione’s passion for discussing books, though. _

_That isn’t usually a problem since Harry shares this passion - they can often be found pouring over books together, even though their tastes differ vastly. Harry prefers his stories to take him to places far away, build exotic cultures and tell of heroic actions, while Hermione loves gruesome crime thrillers and mystery stories. She likes to either solve the crime out loud while reading or criticise the plot, pointing out logical fallacies. Both are received with eye rolls and absentminded, noncommittal humming noises from a long suffering Ron. Harry had gotten quite lucky in that aspect, only having to withstand one rant about whatever stories she’d read since their last review, whereas Ron is often present while she reads them. Of course, mystery novels aren’t all Hermione reads. She reads the Classics, reads about Important Topics like social issues, politics or the environment. Sometimes Harry thinks she just reads everything there is. _

_And sometimes she tries to get Harry to read books other than fantasy. Harry seldom likes them and only reads them after she annoys him about it for long enough. Which she has just managed again. _

_“That reminds me, have you read Moby Dick yet? You promised you would.” She continues, rambling about its importance and what not. Harry isn’t in the mood to indulge her. _

_“Hermione stop. Yes, I have read Moby Dick. No, I did not like it and it was a terrible recommendation. I have to go now ‘Mione, talk to you soon.” Then he hangs up, knowing she would otherwise force him to discuss every minute detail. It is somewhat rude, hanging up on her like that, but he is confident she will forgive him, eventually. _

_He closes his eyes, letting out a deep sigh and trying to let the calm atmosphere flow through him. When he opens his eyes, he has forgotten all his irritation with Hermione. Bless the magic of book stores. _

_“You are wrong, you know.” There is a man standing next to him, studiously regarding the bookshelf. Annoyance returns, fast and consuming. Who does he think he is, that he has any right to comment on his private conversations? _

_“Excuse me?!” _

_The man turns to face Harry and for a short moment he forgets why he had been offended. He is gorgeous, blond hair loosely falling into his grey eyes, which are accented by eyeliner and glitter, making them positively sparkle. Harry is lost in admiration. Until the man opens his mouth. _

_“I said you are wrong about Moby Dick. It’s an excellent book.” Right. The gorgeous bloke is a prick. Harry should have guessed. _

_“And just what business is that of yours?” He crosses his arms, resembling a petulant child more than he would like, but there is no way he is letting this go._

_“Oh none at all, I just thought you ought to know. I couldn’t in good conscience leave you to your ignorance.” Harry isn’t entirely sure the man is serious. There is an odd twist to his lips that might be the attempt to hide a smile - or it might be a suppressed sneer. But Harry is always ready to give people the benefit of the doubt, so he settles on a smile, albeit a little forced. _

_“They say ignorance is bliss though.” The man laughs and Harry instantly decides he had made the right choice. He has a beautiful laugh, warm and free. _

_“You got me. I wanted to destroy your bliss and doom you to suffer in terrible knowledge.” He is whispering, conspiring, leaning closer, as if telling some grand secret. Harry is starting to enjoy this conversation. How could he not, with a gorgeous and funny stranger almost clinging to him? _

_“Go on then, try and destroy my bliss, if you think you can. How am I wrong in thinking it was a tedious book, forcing more facts about whales on me than I ever wanted to know.” Harry’s smile this time is honest, because he might still be a prick but at least he is also interesting, entertaining and quick witted. Truth be told, Harry rather likes prickly people. _

_“The list is rather extensive. I’m not sure I have the time to educate you on the marvels of literature right now.” If that isn’t an invitation Harry doesn’t know what is. And he is just intrigued enough to play along. _

_“How about you tell me over dinner then?” The man laughs again, getting a pen from his jacket and taking Harry’s hand after a questioning glance. _

_“Why that was extremely smooth, impressive. This is my number, call me.” Then he winks and turns to go. _

_“We don’t even know each other’s names, you realise that?” Not that he is complaining, not at all. It somehow fits the circumstances of their meeting. Apparently, Harry isn’t alone with this opinion, because the man only laughs, calling over his shoulder “You have my number. If you want to change this unfortunate state of affairs - it’s in your hands.” _

_Then he disappears, leaving Harry stupidly smiling and with a glittery blue phone number on his hand. _

_Yes, Harry loves bookstores. There is always something fascinating to discover. _

* * *

The driver is saying something about how it isn’t his fault, how he didn’t see Draco. Harry doesn’t listen, he is focused on Draco’s hand, limp and unresponsive in his. Draco can’t die here, he can’t. Harry won’t allow it. 

* * *

_Draco is tired. He has been here for hours already. Staring at the canvas and willing inspiration to come. It doesn’t work; it never does. He shouldn’t be this disappointed by it – it’s normal, only to be expected. Thinking he could create something impressive and meaningful every single day is plain naïve. And yet here Draco is, feeling like a failure, like an imposter. _

_Logically he knows that he should head out, that he isn’t going to accomplish anything more today. But he can’t, something is keeping him here - frozen, feeling as if on the verge of a breakthrough, always just out of reach. So instead of doing the sensible thing and going home, he stares the canvas down. _

_At a sudden noise he whirls around, his imagination deciding that’s the perfect moment to strike and supplying him with countless scenarios of intruders, robbing him and destroying his art. It is ridiculous, though knowing this doesn’t impress his fear response at all. Ready to attack first, he is relieved when he finds Harry standing in the doorway, hands raised in mock surrender. _

_“I come in peace, bringing nauseatingly sweet coffee and scones.” The prospect of coffee helps raise his spirits, but with the imminent threat of burglars gone Draco falls back into his previous state of waiting for inspiration. No need to drag Harry down with him, however. _

_“Then your intrusion is graciously forgiven.” He must not have done a good job of hiding his weariness, because Harry sets the food down on the counter, stepping closer. _

_“Draco love, are you alright?” He would of course never admit it, but he loves when Harry calls him that. Harry probably knows anyway; he has gotten uncannily good at reading Draco. Not that he would ever seriously complain. Especially not now, when he doesn’t have to ask Harry to wrap him up in his arms, carding his fingers through his hair and softly talking about nothing in particular. _

_It is calming, taking his thoughts away from the accusing canvas. Draco can stay here, until either inspiration hits or Harry takes him home._

* * *

The paramedics arrive. They lift Draco off the ground, carry him into the ambulance. His imprint is still visible in the snow. Harry turns around and follows him into the ambulance. 

* * *

_“Harry, is it supposed to look like this?” Draco sounds dubious, which doesn’t bode well for Harry’s poor food. A quick glance confirms that it is, in fact, not supposed to look like that. How has Draco managed to screw up something this basic? All he had to do was stir it! _

_“Love, I think that’s the signal to give up and order takeout.” Draco throws the spatula in the pot, sinking back on a chair with a heavy sigh. _

_“Why can’t I do this? Why does every time you try to teach me how to cook end with us getting takeout and the kitchen smelling suspicious for a week?” Harry is about to point out that Draco never actually gave him the chance to teach him anything. He is too impatient to listen to Harry’s instructions, instead choosing to do and add whatever crosses his mind in the moment, and too stubborn to stick to chopping and preparing. It is quite clear why no meal ended up being edible; even if Draco refuses to see it and instead opts to pout adorably. _

_Suddenly Draco sits up straight, a wicked smile on his lips. _

_“The way I see it, there’s only one possible explanation for this disaster, Potter. You are simply a terrible teacher, darling.” Draco looks smug, sitting on the chair as if it were a throne. _

_“Well, Malfoy, I think there’s a crucial factor you failed to consider. You, my dear, are an awful cook.” The offended gasp Draco lets out is hilarious, Harry can just barely keep himself from laughing. _

_“How dare you! Blaming your incompetence on me! I don’t even know what to say to that. The audacity!” _

_Harry steps forward, towering over Draco in his chair. “My incompetence, is it? Are you aware that I’ve taught ten year old children to cook recipes more complicated than this? I don’t know why I even put up with you - can’t even cook something this simple and has the nerve to blame it on me.” Draco looks up at him, staring dreamily at his lips. Harry smirks - he is so easy to distract. _

_“Ah, but you love me.” He seems triumphant, but only for a moment. _

_They’ve never actually said it out loud. It is silently accepted, always implied. As soon as Draco realises this he looks insecure, uncomfortable, as if doubting that Harry loves him. _

_“That I do indeed.” He ignores the forsaken attempt at dinner in favour of kissing Draco senseless. _

* * *

The doctor comes out of surgery to give an update on Draco’s condition - saying the same as before. They can’t tell him anything, nothing of substance, nothing on Draco’s condition. All he says is that they are doing there best, as if that helps. 

* * *

_Draco checks the recipe again. Maybe he did miss something? It is the only way to explain this total failure. Who would have thought baking biscuits would be this difficult. The recipe has been simple, too. And yet Draco is hesitant to call the result biscuits. They are definitely badly burned, which would account for the dreadful smell. The dough might be alright, in which case those burned clumps might be edible. _

_Feeling brave, Draco breaks off a tiny piece of the least-burned one and tastes it. It is terrible. These can’t be salvaged. _

_“Honey, I’m home.” Great, sharing yet another culinary disaster with Harry is exactly what he needs. Before Draco can throw the failed biscuits into the trash where they belong, Harry has wrapped his arms around him, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek in greeting. _

_“You made biscuits? I didn’t know you could bake.” He sounded honestly delighted, apparently seriously believing Draco capable of baking. How the distinct smell hasn’t alerted him yet Draco doesn’t know. _

_“Well it turns out I can’t.” He tries once more to get rid of them before Harry does something stupid like eat them, but Harry gently stops him. _

_“I’m sure they are fine, only a little burned. Happens to all of us.” And before Draco could warn him that yes, they were that bad, he takes one. _

_A strange look passes over his face, undoubtedly the realisation that his boyfriend can’t bake either and was absolutely right to warn him about the cookies. Harry swallows and manages to suppress a grimace; if Draco hadn’t known what to look for he probably wouldn’t have noticed. _

_“Those are really good. Sure, a little crunchy but that’s not necessarily a bad thing is it? Seriously Draco, they are fine.” As if to prove it, the moron promptly eats another one. Draco truly loves him._

* * *

The police are asking questions. They want to blame Draco for crossing the street. Harry could punch them. 

* * *

_Harry can’t pay attention to a single word Draco is saying. He is pointing out constellations, explaining the myths behind them or scientific astronomic facts. Usually Harry would love to listen to him, but right now his mind is elsewhere. He has planned this evening to minute detail: the picnic in the park, the fancy wine Draco likes, the clear sky. _

_Everything has worked out as hoped - all that is left to do is ask Draco. _

_Harry doesn’t know why he is this nervous, he doesn’t think Draco would say no after all. What is there to fear? Draco loves him, Harry knows that. Of course he’ll say yes. _

_“Draco, I have something to tell you.” Harry winces internally. He doesn’t sound like he is about to propose to the man he loves, more like he has some grave issue he needs to discuss, pressing news Draco won’t like. _

_“Are you finally going to tell me why you’ve been weird lately?” Apprehension is clear in his voice. With another wince, external this time, Harry realises that his secrecy, dearly needed for the planning, hasn’t only affected himself but Draco also. It seems obvious now, of course Draco would worry when Harry suddenly becomes distracted and taciturn. _

_He is doing this all wrong. Maybe he should have gone to a nice restaurant; put the ring in a champagne glass or something. There must be a reason it had become one of the most clichéd ways to propose after all. Although, Draco would probably not have appreciated that all that much. Neither would Harry, which is why he had planned this instead. He has considered everything so carefully, chosen a place of which they have fond memories together, prepared Draco’s favourite foods - he even brought a blanket in case it gets too cold. _

_No, Harry is going to do this right, they both deserve it. He takes a deep breath, holds Draco’s hands and looks into his eyes. _

_“Draco, I love you. _

_“I love that you make me laugh and that you take every opportunity to criticise my taste in books. I love that I can always be sure that you’ll be there for me, that you somehow manage to splatter paint on every piece of clothing I own. I love your intelligence, you compassion, and your constant sarcastic commentary on the world around you. _

_“I don’t want a day to go by without seeing you smile or hearing your laugh. _

_“Draco, will you marry me?” Harry can’t remember when he has gotten the ring out, but it doesn’t matter, because next thing he knows Draco is hugging him close, furiously whispering “Yes, yes you idiot of course I will marry you!” _

_Harry has never been happier. _

* * *

Hermione and Ron sit with him. They bring tea; tell him what’s happening outside the hospital. They try to comfort him. They don’t help. 

* * *

_“Can we finish your book today or are you still sulking because I called it tedious and predictable?” Draco has brought with him the book they were currently reading – one Harry has chosen - and treacle tart, Harry’s favourite, fresh out of the oven. _

_After Draco’s first disastrous attempt at cookies Harry has honestly not expected to ever find him in the kitchen again. He should have known better. Draco is too proud and too stubborn to give up that easily. He continuously attempts cooking as well, though he has gotten no better. Harry suspects he just enjoys watching him cook and ruin it in ever so creative ways – all under the pretence of helping and with an innocent smile. _

_So he has continued to bake, steadily getting better. It has become their ritual. Draco bakes something delicious and they cuddle up on the couch, reading a good book. What qualifies as a good book depends on whose turn it was to choose, ensuring they both have plenty to criticise. They pretty quickly discovered that their taste in books isn’t compatible, though Draco’s tastes line up perfectly with Hermione’s. _

_It didn’t stop them from reading together, loudly complaining about everything and anything, sometimes for the sake of it alone. It turned into a competition, trying to convert the other from his obviously wrong path to the only true way to enjoy books. It involves a lot of fondly uttered insults and bickering Ron cites as proof they are actually an old married couple every chance he gets. _

_Harry suspects they are both too competitive to live in peaceful tranquillity for any amount of time - they need something to argue about. He’d rather it be something harmless and enjoyable like books than escalating into a big fight. It’s also great fun, which is reason enough to continue. Most importantly, Draco is wrong and Harry will prove it._

_“Oh, I am the one sulking, am I? I seem to remember you leaving in a huff when your grand prediction for the plot turned out to be totally wrong. But if you promise not to behave like a twat again, I could be convinced to continue.” Harry adopts a haughty expression, patting the spot next to him on the couch. Draco doesn’t sit down, that would be too easy and not dramatic enough. Instead he clutches his hand to his heart, gasping loudly. _

_“Twat? Is that what you think of me then? When all I did was politely point out flaws in the narrative. I am hurt, deeply hurt.” Harry snorts. His husband truly could be ridiculous. _

_“Yes, that is exactly what I think of you. You are an insufferable, spoilt brat who sulks when he doesn’t get his way. Now come here already.” Draco still pretends to be hurt but allows himself to be tugged down, wasting no time in getting comfortable. _

_“You don’t honestly believe that this is better than Frankenstein, do you?” Now it is Draco’s turn to sound haughty. It is impressive that he manages to sound snobbish while he is snuggling up to Harry. _

_“You’ll simply have to live with the shame of being associated with someone who doesn’t like Frankenstein. I thought Victor Frankenstein a right git and his treatment of the poor creature unacceptable.” They have had this discussion; have spent several hours ranting about the various flaws and mistakes of Victor Frankenstein and how he should have handled the situation. While they both have similar opinions about the book, they differ in one crucial point: Draco likes it, likes watching the catastrophe unfold and tracing how a confident young man could go so astray. Harry hates it, hates watching him make one mistake after another. _

_“My dear Harry, you are a moron. That is exactly the point of the novel, don’t you realise? You are not supposed to like him. But of course, that might be too complex for you to understand.” Draco shakes his head in mock-disappointment. _

_“God but you are a prick.” Harry attacks him; tickling him without mercy and making him shriek and flail wildly. Usually Draco is better prepared to deflect such attacks, but he has been too focused on demonstrating his grave disappointment and now Harry has him laughing and gasping for breath. _

_“Okay I take it back, Harry, I take it back!” Reluctantly Harry stops his onslaught, laying down next to Draco, desperately gasping for air, and waits for his breathing to normalise. _

_“Prat.” Harry couldn’t help but laugh. Draco sounds more convincing when he isn’t playing with his hair. _

* * *

With a tired sigh Harry closes the book. He is almost through, only one chapter left and he will have to pick a new one. When he looks at Draco like that he can almost convince himself his husband is merely sleeping, that he will wake up if Harry were to call for him. 

But he wouldn’t wake up, no matter how much Harry called. 

And he tried, for weeks he tried. 

He doesn’t remember much of those weeks. Countless doctors, telling him his husband has indeterminable brain damage, Draco laying unmoving in this bed, worried friends visiting and giving empty reassurances. 

In contrast he remembers the accident in gruelling detail. 

Draco laughing in the snow, the night cold and quiet around them, making them feel like the only people in the whole world. A car coming out of nowhere, bright and loud, too close to Draco. Draco’s face eerily illuminated in the headlights, just standing there, looking at Harry for help. A heavy thump. Draco’s body flying through the air. Another heavy thump. Draco laying on the ground, the snow turning red. 

And now Harry is here. Nobody can tell him anything, not the extent of the damage, not when Draco will wake up, not if it will affect him in any way. The only answer he ever gets is that brain damage is unpredictable. 

All Harry can do is sit here, be there for Draco and talk to him, read to him. 

Wait for him to wake up. 

* * *

Harry had waited for this moment. He had waited and hoped, raged against and begged with every power in the universe. And now Draco is awake, at long last. It is both exactly and nothing like what Harry had wanted. 

He used to be able to look into Draco’s eyes and see everything in them. Now he sees nothing. 

The doctors can’t explain it. Brain damage, they say, never predictable. The only thing they know with any certainty is that Draco had lost his memory, the last five years roughly. It might come back, it might not. 

All that matters to Harry is that his husband looks at him and doesn’t recognise him. 

“Of course you know me, Draco. I’m Harry, your husband. Draco, please.” Draco just watches him, mutely. No, Draco doesn’t know him. Not anymore. Harry knows that, he _knows_ , but he needs to try. 

“I’m deeply sorry, but I don’t know who you are. Have my parents been informed of my accident?” It hurts, to be brushed off like this. He knows Draco doesn’t mean to hurt him, even if right now he doesn’t remember Harry, but that doesn’t make this any easier. 

Draco is closed off, no emotions betrayed in either his voice or his eyes. And he asks after his parents, of all people. It makes sense, considering everything. Harry can’t deal with this, can’t deal with his husband waking up a stranger. He needs a moment to process. 

“Excuse me please.” He all but runs away, desperately wishing for some distance and clarity, wishing for circumstances to be different when he returns. 


	2. Chapter 2

Harry stands in front of the closed door, gathering all his confidence and bravery and sheer stubbornness. The fact that there even is a door to linger behind is a little disconcerting. He hadn’t arranged for Draco to be moved, but Harry couldn’t concentrate on that right now- it’s unimportant. Most likely Draco had requested the change himself. 

Harry is going to walk in there and get his husband back. This time he is prepared, he can handle this. He nods to himself and knocks on the door before opening it. 

He had been wrong - he is not prepared. 

Draco sits in the bed, talking to a regal couple, both of them blond and coldly regarding Harry. There is no mistaking them - Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy. 

Harry remembers many late-night conversations, Draco confiding in him about the parents he loves despite never being enough to make them proud, the parents that were never affectionate or warm, the parents he hadn’t talked to in years. It is strange, seeing them in person after only ever hearing about them. Stranger even, is how glad Draco seems for their presence. 

It stings, that his husband would be more comfortable with his estranged parents than Harry. Then he feels guilty - Draco needs all the comfort he can get, whatever form that comfort takes and whether Harry likes it or not. 

The tense silence is broken when someone stumbles into Harry, making him fall into the room, breaking the constellation they had all been frozen in. After much shuffling and awkward rearranging, they are standing once more, the room suddenly much smaller and everyone a little closer. 

Belatedly Harry realises that the room didn’t actually shrink, there is just one person more in it. The nurse is tiny, holding a file she must have been reading when she bumped into Harry. She also looks uncomfortable as she’s standing there, adjusting her glasses and rubbing her hands. 

“I’m sorry, I just need Mr. Potter to sign these discharge papers.” Harry watches as Lucius tries to hide a grimace at the surname. Draco had gleefully told him his father probably would have an aneurysm if he ever found out that he took Harry’s name. It wasn’t an easy decision to make. Draco agonised over it for ages, not wanting to lose this connection to his parents but also not wanting to drag the life he left behind into this new chapter. In the end he settled on keeping the Malfoy name as a middle name, becoming a Potter for all intents and purposes. He looked so happy when he was first addressed as Mr. Potter, smiling bright and eyes full of pure joy. Now he only looks confused, needing a moment to realise _he_ is Mr. Potter. 

They all watch silently as Draco signs the forms and the nurse quickly leaves, glad to escape the tension. 

Harry desperately wants to say something, _anything_, to break the silence. But his head feels empty, not a single intelligent thought to be found. So he says nothing, leaving it to the Malfoys to navigate the situation and instead watches his husband fiddle with his sleeves. It is a familiar gesture, something endearing Draco does when he’s nervous. Harry can’t help but smile - he feels hope surging up in him. They are going to get through this. 

He is about to go over there, take Draco’s hand and reassure him, when a cold voice cuts through the silence. 

“Draco, for heaven’s sake, stop your fidgeting and sit still!” Draco flinches at his father’s reprimand, sitting up straighter and stopping all movement. Harry could punch him. Draco never does what he’s told, and never without a derisive smirk, signalling he is merely indulging you. Harry doesn’t like how easily he complies, how there’s no scathing retort waiting to be let loose by that clever tongue. Only the thought of destroying the bond between Draco and his parents stops Harry from telling Lucius any of that. Instead, he addresses Draco. 

“Draco, I brought you some clothes, makeup and jewelry too.” He ignores the odd sound coming from Lucius Malfoy. Draco just takes the bag, ignoring his father. 

“Thank you, Harry.” His smile is small but sincere, it soothes Harry’s urge to defend and protect. He smiles back. 

Draco goes to change in the bathroom, leaving Harry and the Malfoys in tense silence. Somehow there is nothing at all to say and much more than could possibly be said in the short time they have. 

Harry is relieved when he hears the door open. 

Draco looks almost like himself again, wearing one of his more comfortable shirts, a pair of Harry’s sweatpants, the tops of his favourite pair of pink fuzzy socks only just visible over the black boots. It’s not a look Draco would ever go out in, but it is what he wears when they spend their evenings cuddled together on the couch. It all but screams comfort and safety. 

Draco tugs at the sleeves, covers his hands completely before pushing it back up. He clearly isn’t as comfortable as Harry hoped he would be. It is like watching a kitten stumble, endearing and soft, but evoking a profound sadness. 

“Come on Draco, we don’t have all day. The driver is waiting.” Lucius’ tone betrays an impatience that isn’t visible behind the cool mask he calls a face. Harry is oddly reassured by that, logically _knowing_ the man feels and actually _seeing_ proof of it are apparently two different things. That does not mean he is about to just let him take Draco. 

“Oh you didn’t need to call us a driver, I’ll take Draco home myself. Thank you, though.” Harry smiles a, what he hopes is only a slightly strained, smile and slings an arm around Draco, pulling him closer. He only has a few seconds to enjoy the feeling of Draco next to him, before he is shrugged off. 

“And what, pray tell, makes you think _my son_ will go anywhere with _you_?” There is an ugly sneer on his face, making it overly clear what Lucius Malfoy thinks of him. 

“What makes you think _my husband_ would go anywhere with _you_?” He’s seething now, ready to snap and drag Draco out of here. They don’t deserve him as a son anyway. Instinctively Harry steps in front of Draco, physically building a barrier between him and Lucius. 

“All right, let’s calm down, boys. Lucius dear, the driver can wait. We need to talk about this in a mature and rational manner.” Narcissa’s tone is gently scolding as she steps between them, ensuring their distance by holding her hands out with a placating air. 

Harry backs away slightly. He hadn’t realised how worked up he had gotten. He likes to think he got better at controlling his temper, but Draco had always been the exception to the rule. 

But, screaming at Lucius won’t help him in keeping Draco - he needs to go about this differently. Harry takes a deep breath, trying to focus on the goal, namely getting Draco home. 

“The doctors said he needs familiarity, that he should return to his day-to-day life. That means he comes with me, comes _home_.” Harry sees Lucius rearing up to argue with him, to somehow twist his words until they mean something else. He can’t allow that to happen. 

“You _do_ _want_ him to recover, don’t you?” That shuts him up. Harry feels smug. 

“That is _enough_! Don’t you think I should get a say in this?” Draco. Of course he has an opinion on this. 

It’s not that Harry doesn’t want to let him make his own decision, not at all. Only that Draco doesn’t even know who he is right now. He can’t make an informed choice if he doesn’t know that, can he? 

Harry wants to take him home, show him who he is, who they are. How can he do that if Draco goes with his parents? How can his parents show him who Draco is if they themselves don’t know? No, the sensible choice is to go home with Harry. But Draco had never been one to make sensible choices. 

“I might suffer from amnesia, but that does _not_ affect my judgement. I am an adult, more than capable to make my own choices and do not need to be patronised by you. 

“Mr. Potter, this is certainly a difficult situation for both of us, but I do not know you. It is more than obvious what you feel for me and you claim I felt the same, but a marriage does not necessarily mean that I loved you. There are many reasons to marry. For all I know you could be nothing more than someone I married for the tax benefits. 

“Going with a complete stranger seems like an unwise choice to me. It would also be unnecessarily cruel to you, I have no wish to hurt you further, I apologise for the pain I have already caused. 

“Mother, Father, I am ready to leave.” 

Harry hadn’t thought this situation could possibly get any worse, hurt any more. He was wrong. 

Hearing Draco declare his intentions of leaving him, giving up on them so dispassionately, so _rationally_, as if he isn’t tearing out Harry’s heart and stomping on it – that is different pain. He can imagine it already: Lucius’s smug smile, how he ushers Draco out of the room, the door closing behind them. No, he won’t give up that easily! 

“Draco, listen to me, please. I’m sorry if I made you feel like this isn’t your decision, I just feel like you don’t have all the information you need to make this choice. You haven’t spoken to your parents in five years; don’t you think there’s a reason for that? 

“All I’m asking for is a chance to explain some things, and then you can make your choice - an _informed_ one, okay? Just, wait here for a moment. I’ll go and get you some chocolate and we’ll talk about this okay? Please don’t leave yet Draco, give me a chance.” 

Without waiting for a response from Draco or something condescending from Lucius, Harry runs from the room. 

He only stops running when he reaches the cafeteria. Thankfully the queue is short and he doesn’t have to wait long before he can pay for the chocolate. It isn’t the kind Draco likes best but it would have to do. Feeding Draco sweets always helped to make him more willing to listen; Harry could only hope that had stayed the same. 

Smiling at the cashier, he opens his wallet to pay when he sees the pictures. There are five of them; he had to fold the strip to fit it in his wallet. Harry remembers the day they had taken those as if it were yesterday. It was on a date early into their relationship, when Draco had dragged him in to this photo booth. The first three pictures are the two of them making stupid faces, trying to outdo each other. The fourth picture is calm in comparison, but it is Harry’s favourite. They are gazing at each other, the atmosphere changed from goofy to anticipatory. Draco looks gorgeous, glittering, lips a deep red, eyeliner accentuating his beautiful eyes. The following kiss is caught in the last picture, though they had completely forgotten the camera by then. 

Harry desperately wishes himself back to this time, back to when things had been good and easy and they were so very much in love. 

Suddenly it hits him, this is proof that they love each other, the proof Draco needs! 

Harry might have shouted something, incoherent and triumphant, because the cashier looks at him like he’s crazy. He doesn’t care; only mumbles a quick apology before rushing out, leaving the chocolate and ignoring the startled looks. 

He feels the adrenalin running through his veins, he finally has a plan, he can _do_ something. 

Harry throws the door open, brandishing the pictures in one hand, determined to destroy any doubt about their relationship and convince Draco to come with him, to give him a chance. 

The room is empty. Vacant, deserted, desolate - Draco is gone. 

Harry presses the surge of betrayal down; he has no time for that right now. He hasn’t been gone that long so Draco can’t be far, Harry should be able to catch him if he runs. He clings to that, to the hope that Draco is still here, that it’s not too late. 

Frantic he turns around, runs down the corridor, searches for the tell-tale blond hair. 

He scans hair: dark, brown, dirty-blond, ginger, fake-blond, black, pink – never the right blond. He turns, scans, turns again. He has lost all sense of direction, focusing solely on colours. 

Rounding another corner he collides with somebody. He stumbles back, grabbing on to whoever he run into. “Sorry, I’m sorry – Draco?” 

A wave of relief washes over Harry. Draco isn’t gone; he can still convince him to come home. Instinctively he holds him closer, presses him against his chest to reassure Draco really is here, and not a figment of his desperate imagination. 

The rude cough that must be Lucius Malfoy reminds him of the importance of the situation. He holds Draco back at arm’s length, not letting go but able to look him in the eyes now. 

"Draco, I'm so glad I found you. Listen, you said that you can’t trust me, and I get that. It hurts, but I get it. But I have proof; I can show you that you loved me, that our marriage is not one for convenience. Would you give me a chance to prove that?" 

Harry holds his breath. It all depends on Draco now; he could either look at the pictures or leave. He holds him, doesn’t take his hands off from where they grabbed his arms when he stumbled. Draco looks up at him, eyes wide and wondering. 

* * *

Draco doesn’t know what to do. He hadn’t liked to leave like that, to disappoint Harry’s trust in him again. But his father had insisted and so he went. 

But now Harry is here, almost run him over in fact. He looks different now, determined and fierce. It warms Draco that he came after him, that he was important enough to warrant such exertion. He faintly hears his father muttering something behind him but doesn’t listen. 

Draco’s entire focus is narrowed to where Harry touches him and those marvellous eyes. There is a fire burning in them, he looks dangerous. It’s utterly thrilling. 

“Yes, okay.” He is breathless, which is embarrassing. Draco also suspects he would have said yes to anything Harry asked of him, which is even more embarrassing. He feels himself blush and curses his pale complexion. He does not want to turn bright red in front of Harry. 

“Draco.” Harry’s voice is fond, relieved, so warm, and a smile breaks out over his face. Draco thinks he might say something else, but instead he pulls him closer again, gently brings one hand up to cup his face, brushing a thumb over his cheek. 

His father loudly clears his throat, reminding Draco of the world outside of Harry. He flinches and pulls away a little, not wanting to move at all but acutely aware of his father’s disapproval. Harry is glaring at over Lucius, apparently equally irked at the interruption. 

“You said you have evidence?” Harry looks back down at him, face softening. 

“Yes, right!” He lets go of Draco, a fact he decidedly does not regret, and pulls something from his pocket. Then he hands him a piece of folded paper out of his wallet. Draco readily accepts them but is apprehensive to actually look at them. This, so Harry claims, is proof. Proof for a live he doesn’t remember. What will he do if it does prove Draco loved him? What if it doesn’t? 

Instead of looking at the pictures he looks at Harry. He can’t read his expression. He seems prepared to wait for Draco to make his choice, to accept whatever he decides. Draco finds himself reaching for him, about to take his hand, but he quickly aborts the motion. Practically speaking, Harry is a stranger. It would hardly be appropriate. Harry notices anyway, eyes shifting down to his hand. Before Draco has his hand safely pulled back to his side, Harry takes it in one of his. 

Startled, Draco looks up. Harry smiles at him, silently asking if this is okay. Grateful, Draco squeezes his hand, takes a deep breath and turns the paper over. 

There are five pictures, Harry and him, obviously enjoying themselves and having fun. He can’t help but smile down at their images, so carefree and happy. What ultimately captures his attention though, is the makeup he is wearing. It isn’t surprising exactly; Draco had experimented before, in secret, afraid of anyone finding out. But this, wearing it open and proud and being accepted by Harry - Draco never thought he could have that. He suddenly remembers there had been makeup in the bag Harry brought for him. 

Draco looks up, finding Harry already watching him. This man knows him, truly knows who Draco is. Tears threaten to well up and Draco quickly looks back down again, not wanting to cry in front of his father. Vulnerability leads to failure. Malfoys don’t fail. 

At seeing the next pictures Draco can’t suppress the tears anymore. It is so blatantly obvious how much he loved Harry; it would almost be pathetic if Harry didn’t look at him the same way. But he does. They both just stare at each other, lost in each other, however much Draco despises this cliché. There is simply no way to possibly deny that he loved Harry. Draco finds he doesn’t want to deny it. 

He also doesn’t want to turn his back on Harry and leave him, doesn’t want to go home with his parents and never see him again. Draco hasn’t determined yet what it is he wants, but going with Harry seems like a good start. 

* * *

Harry has a nice profile. Draco feels confident that he could paint every detail of it by now, having spent the last hour throwing furtive glances at him. It is all excruciatingly awkward and Draco can hardly wait to get out of the car. 

After Draco’s apology for his father’s outraged reaction to his decision and Harry’s assurance that he isn’t offended, they haven’t spoken a word. It’s curious, one would think Draco would have millions of questions burning to be asked, using this opportunity to overwhelm Harry with them. Harry should have told him of their life, they should have formed a connection, there should have been accidental touches. That’s how all the stories go, isn’t it? 

Instead, they are sitting in silence, Harry concentrating on driving, Draco sneaking glances at him. It isn’t tense exactly, but he is hesitant to say something and break the peace, however uncomfortable it is. Maybe it’s only himself, maybe Harry is fine and he is just being overly dramatic and difficult. As his father likes to remind him, life isn’t a story and it’s about time he accepts that. 

Draco is startled out of his contemplations by a sudden touch. Harry has placed his hand over Draco’s, stilling them with the warm and heavy weight. He’s avoiding looking at him though. “Want to talk about it?” 

Just like that the strained atmosphere is lifted; simple really. Even after being specifically invited to speak, Draco keeps quiet. No, he does not want to talk about it. He does not want to explain to Harry how this situation fails to live up to Draco’s expectations, how he doesn’t know what to feel, how to act. He wouldn’t know how to phrase it if he wanted to, that he is disappointed in himself for not asking questions, not wanting to know, that he is disappointed in Harry for not magically being aware of this and solving the problem for him. But neither does he want for the silence to return. “Tell me something about our life, something nice?” 

It feels like a stupid request the moment he speaks it; Draco regrets it immediately. _Something nice_, Harry probably doesn’t want to entertain his ridiculous insecurities, much less if it’s something so vague he asks for. No doubt he would have answered specific questions; he seemed more than willing to help after all. But asking for a story? Draco is about to apologise, ask for something else, something specific this time, when Harry laughs. It’s warm and surprised, and he lightly squeezes Draco’s hand. 

“Of course you want to hear a story, why am I even surprised. There is nothing you love quite as much as a good story. We have a library you know. We collected too many books by far to store them otherwise, and you refuse to read e-books. You can rant for hours about why real books are so much better, how they feel and smell better, how they have a soul. 

“We read together a lot actually, even though we can hardly ever agree. Whenever I like a book I can be sure you could find plenty to complain about, usually a stupid character or the unrealistic plot. It hasn’t stopped us yet, quite the opposite in fact. You bake something delicious and we read out loud, complain about each other’s terrible taste. 

“You once gifted me a book that, to put it in your words, you knew I would love because you despised it. I thought you were exaggerating at the time, but it turned out you weren’t. You obviously had read it before, because on every page there was at least one remark, commenting on some terrible aspect or other. You were right, too, it was amazing and your commentary made it even better. Of course I had to repay you for such a lovely gift, so I gave you a book myself, commentary and all. 

“It has become something of a tradition, though we slowly started to replace it by simply reading them together from the start.” 

Harry slowly trails off, obviously lost in remembrance - memories Draco should have too, but doesn't, not anymore. 

Still, seeing the soft smile on Harry’s face and hearing the fondness in his voice helps Draco focus less on what he’s missing, and more on the possibilities of what they could become. 

Draco wants that, wants someone who loves him as he is. And if Harry loved him before this terrible accident, surely he could love him again. 

Harry’s hand rest on Draco’s. It doesn't bother him as much as he thinks it should. In fact, he rather enjoys the feeling. Harry’s and is big and warm, softly rubbing circles with his thumb. 

Draco feels the exhaustion of the day coming down on him, slowly seeping into his awareness, making him drowsy. He falls asleep thinking about a future where he can live free from expectations. 

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

Draco wakes to the smell of coffee and pancakes. Light fills the room, blinding him. With a yawn Draco burrows deeper into the pillow, trying to hold onto the last remnants of sleep. Its soft, warm, and inviting, though he can’t place the scent. 

Suddenly he freezes. He isn’t at home, this isn't his bed. 

He remembers the doctors, telling him he was in a car accident and lost his memories. He remembers his parents, distraught and insisting he cut all contact with them. He remembers Harry. His husband. He remembers the crestfallen expression, the hurt and determination in his eyes, the makeup bag and Harry’s easy acceptance, the photographs. 

This is Harry’s place, the home he built with Draco. 

The last thing he remembers is being in the car with him, Harry telling him out their life, Harry’s warm hand on Draco’s. He must have fallen asleep in the car, Harry carrying him inside without waking him. 

The realisation should have been soothing, filling in the blanks and answering some questions, but it only causes new worries to rise up. Did Harry undress him? Did he sleep next to him? A quick check reveals that no, Draco is still wearing his clothes from yesterday - which, while uncomfortable is better than Harry seeing him naked – there are no signs of another person sleeping in the bed. Harry must have slept on a couch, a guest room maybe. He must have been considerate of Draco’s situation and all the ways he was, still is, vulnerable and taken great care to make this as comfortable as possible for him. The thought of Harry handling him in such a tender and doting manner fills Draco with warmth and makes the imminent task seem less daunting. 

Looking up from where he tried to escape his growing awareness, he surveys the room. 

It is overwhelming. The walls are covered in an explosion of colours, bright and uncoordinated, swirling and dancing, flowing and telling stories. Draco follows an auburn wave with his eyes, landing on what is unmistakably a vanity. Harry would have mentioned if they lived with a woman and Harry himself doesn’t seem the type to wear makeup. Apparently Draco has become the type to, considering the pictures, and that Harry brought him some to the hospital. It must be his. 

It holds a strong allure, tempting him to step closer and chance a look. Draco doesn’t know why he doesn’t, why he sits in Harry’s bed, staring at it, frozen. He had always liked makeup, could watch Pansy apply it for hours and even asked her to do some for him once. His father was displeased, and that was the end of it. Still, it never stopped tempting him. 

This is just ridiculous! There is absolutely no reason why he shouldn’t explore what the vanity had to offer. His father isn’t here to disapprove and Harry would never have to know if Draco doesn’t want him to. 

Hesitantly, he crawls from the bed, taking the first few steps, growing bolder and suddenly striding to stand right in front of it. 

Once there, Draco doesn’t know where to start - there are countless bottles, stacks of palettes, brushes and pencils. It’s a mystery how it all fits, nothing falling down and no obvious organising system. He discards the bottles as boring for now, focusing instead on the palettes of colour and tubs of glitter. It doesn’t take long for Draco to have spread out every palette to better see and admire the vibrant colours, moving to the floor to have more space to use. Next he surveys the supply of glitter, finding it pressed into eyeshadow, loose in individual pots, and in tubes to be applied like eyeliner. There are lipsticks in more colours than he could name, matching perfectly with the nail polish he found in the drawer. It’s overwhelming, sitting in a mountain of stunning colours and products. 

Overwhelming but no less intriguing - Draco wants to try them all. 

Sternly he has to remind himself that there is no time for such foolish indulgences - he needs to leave this room soon if he doesn’t want for Harry to find him like this. And that is the last thing he wants right now. Mournfully he puts everything back, promising himself he’ll come back to it later. 

Draco does have time for the cupboard though - clothes are, after all, crucial to leaving this room. 

The cupboard is no less intimidating than the vanity, but here at least Draco can blame the sheer size. It’s massive, towering over him. With a deep breath, he opens the doors. 

It is not what he expected. Sure, there are a suspiciously many skirts, trousers that look too tight to be wearable, and shirts Draco wouldn’t be found dead in, but it could have been worse - there could be nothing Draco could imagine wearing. But there are sweaters, all of them covered in paint, that look like they would do for now. They seem comfortable, which is exactly what Draco needs now. The paint can’t be helped either, as far as Draco can see every single piece of clothing in here is splattered in vibrant colours, some less obvious than others. Draco finds the one with the least amount of paint and pulls it on, enjoying the immediate warmth. 

Feeling only slightly more prepared to face the day, Draco makes his way to the source of the terrible off-key singing and the heavenly smell. 

In the kitchen he finds Harry, wearing only sweatpants and turning pancakes. It would be showy, _should be_ showy at least, the way he is flipping them high in the air to catch them in the last possible moment, but he looks so utterly unaware and natural - Draco can’t help but be charmed by it. 

He is standing in the doorway, contemplating the fundamental joy Harry seems to find in even such mundane tasks, hesitant to make his presence known and break the moment, when Harry turns around and faces him. He doesn’t even blink, just gifts Draco with a bright smile and motions to the desk. 

“Morning Draco. I made breakfast and coffee will be done in a moment, please, sit down.” With another annoyingly not-showy movement he transfers the pancake from its pan to the pile already waiting on the table. 

“Interesting choice of clothing. Is there a reason you are wearing my sweater?” The question is idle, light, Harry isn’t even looking up from where he is preparing their coffee. Draco feels as if he did something wrong anyway. 

“I didn’t know it was yours. It was the only thing I felt comfortable in, but I could put on something else if you would prefer?” He doesn’t want to change. Even knowing the sweater belongs to Harry it feels cosy, warm, and inviting. Though that explains why it is too big for Draco, sleeves falling over his hands and sitting on his shoulders precariously, threatening to fall down any second. 

“Actually, I would prefer you stay just like this. You always steal my clothes, especially for painting or lazy days when you don’t want to do anything. I love seeing you in them.” He smiles at him again, as if to reassure Draco, and makes another motion to the table. 

It’s a picture-perfect little scene, sunlight falling in from the window and casting a soft golden glow on everything. Draco sits down. 

The table is small, oddly delicate and looks like it belongs in front of a cafe in Paris, the most beautiful lilies on it. They are purple, Draco’s absolute favourite. He wonders if Harry knew that and picked those on purpose, then he wonders where they had come from. They are obviously fresh and the doctors told him Harry had hardly left his side while he was in a coma, so he must have bought them this morning. Draco suddenly feels guilty. Harry went shopping and made breakfast, all while he himself slept until late in the day. 

“I hope you slept well?” Draco is startled out of his thoughts by Harry and the mug of coffee he presses in his hands. Without thinking about it, Draco brings it up to his nose to inhale the scent and savour the warmth. It smells sickeningly sweet and is almost too hot to hold; it’s perfect. 

“Thank you, I did. How about you?” What he means but somehow can’t say is thank you for making breakfast, thank you for getting flowers and brewing my coffee to perfection, thank you for giving me this. Harry understands anyway, smiling at him, mumbling something affirming and sipping his own coffee. 

Draco expects him to go on, to elaborate, but Harry just looks back at him and drinks his coffee. They must make an odd picture, staring at each other over their mugs and waiting for the other one to break the silence. 

“Those flowers are lovely.” Draco internally cringes. May as well be commenting on the weather. Harry just laughs though, genuinely amused. 

“I’m glad you like them, Nev will complain and lecture me about taking flowers out of the garden.” Harry runs a hand through his hair, the gesture sheepish yet defiant. It is endearing and makes Draco smile, he quickly hides it behind his mug. 

“First, you have a garden? And second, who is _Nev_?” 

“Neville, he’s a good friend who takes care of _our_ garden for us. Actually, it might be more his garden, now that I think about it. He only has a tiny flat which is already stuffed to the brim with plants of all kinds. It’s still not enough for him and he misses gardening, so we graciously and not at all selfishly offered him free reign over our garden.” He looks smug, visibly proud of exploiting his friend, nevertheless obviously caring for him. Draco doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he settles on a nod and drinks his coffee. 

The silence grows again, heavier than before. Draco wants to say something, but he already spoke first the last time and unless he wants to _actually_ start talking about the weather, he has nothing to say. His silence, of course, has nothing to do with his enjoyment of the way Harry squirms under his gaze. 

“Yes, anyway, let’s eat before it goes cold. Here is your syrup.” As if having listened to their conversation, if you could even call it one, Draco’s stomach grumbles. Harry laughs, slightly awkward and relieved this time, and starts piling pancakes on a plate, handing it over to Draco together with the small jar of maple syrup.

Draco gratefully accepts both, pouring some syrup on his pancakes and offering the container back to Harry. Instead of accepting it though, which would have been the polite thing to do, Harry merely raises an eyebrow at him. Draco frowns. Doesn’t he want the syrup? Why can’t he just say so, use his words like a normal person? 

Harry pointedly looks down at Draco’s plate, and then up at him. Draco frowns harder, getting _very_ irritated, _very_ quickly now. Harry laughs at him, and if he could, Draco would frown even harder. 

“No need to be shy, Draco. I know that is not nearly enough for your tastes. Go on, completely drench them.” Harry smiles at him, fond and encouraging, and makes a gesture with his hand for Draco to keep pouring. 

Draco is horrified, he can clearly hear his father reminding him to watch his figure. But he also can’t deny that he does want more, and Harry seems fine with that, expecting it even. He starts pouring, holding Harry’s gaze as he does so, waiting to be stopped. But Harry doesn’t stop him. On the contrary, he keeps smiling, apparently unaware of how unhealthy this much sugar is. Draco only stops when he is satisfied. 

“I keep forgetting how well you know me.” It was meant to sound light, a joke of sorts, but it comes out forced through gritted teeth. Before Harry can comment on it, he continues. “Why don’t you tell me something about you, it is only fair I should know you as well. And we _are_ married. It would be a shame, for me not to know my husband.” 

Draco is relieved to see that the question distracts him, not pressing Draco explain or elaborate. Harry lights up and starts talking about the orphanage he runs, the kids there, his friends. Draco could listen to that voice forever.

* * *

Draco sits in the library, _on the floor_, he can practically hear his father scolding him and lecturing him about decorum, but at least his posture is impeccable, so maybe he would get lucky and only have to listen to the short version. Not that it matters, since his father isn’t _actually here_ to berate him. Draco almost wishes he were. 

He has been sitting in exactly this position for at least an hour now, idly searching the bookshelf in front of him for something to read, something containing the commentary Harry had mentioned fondly. But he can’t settle on anything. Nothing catches his attention enough to entice him into reading. Draco feels like he should be able to list all the books contained in the shelf he has been staring at, but he fears he couldn’t name ten if asked. 

This is leading nowhere. 

Draco has been feeling strange since Harry left, like he doesn’t belong, like he’s intruding. The house is nothing like the Manor’s cold elegance, look but don’t touch. No, this house is lived in, filled with warmth and laughter and love. Everything in here tells a story, is important and dear to someone. This much is obvious, never questioned, not considered extraordinary but a given, though no less treasured for it. 

It is clear in the vibrant swirls of colour flowing over exactly one wall in every room except the bedroom, which is a riot of colour. Clear in the photographs gracing the walls, in the odd mug of long-gone-cold tea found on a table, in the table that can be extended to seat a small army. Clear in the one chair that doesn’t match the others and in the patchwork quilt on the couch.

And yet, with all these stories and life, none of it speaks to Draco. 

He walked through the entire house, aimlessly wandering, riffling through whatever caught his interest, but aside from the vanity there is nothing here for him. And the vanity interests him too much, is too big, too threatening, too overwhelming. 

Every hope he might have had of _something_ stimulating his memory is gone by now, extinguished by being disappointed again and again when confronted with objects that by all rights _should_ mean something to him, should touch him, but _don’t_. 

With a frustrated sigh he gives up on his posture as well as decorum,letting himself fall on his back and stare at the ceiling instead. He can’t do this, or at the very least he can’t do this _alone. _

Suddenly it hits him He doesn’t _have to, _does he? Before he is entirely conscious of what it is he is doing, Draco pulls his mobile out of his pocket and calls Pansy. 

It takes longer than usual for her to pick up. 

“If that isn’t Draco Malfoy. _What_ could you _possibly_ want?” Now, that isn’t what he had expected at all. He is actually slightly hurt that she doesn’t sound happy to hear of him at all - and Draco _knows_ her, she isn’t just pretending. There is a cold viciousness in her voice that had never been directed at Draco before, he had never thought it would be. She genuinely _doesn’t want to talk to him, _maybe even doesn’t want anything to do with him at all. It hurts deeply, if he is being honest, it feels like losing a limb, being ripped apart. 

So Draco does the only thing he can think of and lies. Puts on a smile and pretends nothing is wrong. 

“Pansy, darling, that is no way to speak to your dearest friend is it?” Draco cringes. That must be the worst thing he could have said. Pansy clearly is not in the mood to indulge him and now she would hang up, leaving Draco to lay on the hard floor, nothing to do and utterly alone. 

“_Dearest friends_, is that what we are? You have a funny way of showing it. Now, you have _one chance,_ to say something that convinces me to _not_ hang up on you. Use it wisely.” He can already feel himself form the words, something incredibly inappropriate for the situation and sure to end this call, before he forcefully swallows them down. So what if he is hurting and viciousness is easier? Pansy is far too precious to lose to some stupid defence mechanism. 

He sits up, trying to gather his thoughts and come up with _something_ useful. “I’m getting impatient, Draco.” 

“Give me a second would you? No, wait! Pansy, please, don’t hang up! Okay look, I have no idea what has you this angry. No, that’s not what I mean. I was in an accident! I lost all of my memories from the last few years so I _literally don’t know what is going on. _Please, could we maybe meet or something?”Draco is painfully aware that he is rambling, probably not even making sense, but he is unable to stop himself. 

“_Memory loss?_ Come on, surely you can do better than that. How about you just were _really_ busy? Abducted by aliens maybe? I’m hanging up now. Goodbye Draco.” The way she says it has an air of finality to it, like Draco had irretrievably lost her. It scares him, the prospect of never speaking to her again, of having to live his entire life without her by his side. Hasn’t he lost enough recently? 

“Pansy wait! I’m sorry! I apologise, whatever I did, I deeply regret it. Please, I’m- I’m _begging_ you, tell me what I did to deserve this?” He holds his breath, nervously waiting for her response, cautiously hoping. 

* * *

Pansy watches the city traffic absentmindedly, thinking about Draco Malfoy. 

It has been five years now. Five years since her best friend disappeared without a word, letting her fear he was lying dead in some dark alley. At first she had been relieved when Narcissa told her Draco had merely thrown a tantrum and moved into his own place. It was something he had wanted for a long time and she was most delighted with the prospect of picking furniture and decorating. Only he never called. 

Pansy had waited, hoping against hope, for any message of Draco, only to be bitterly disappointed. He didn’t visit, didn’t call, didn’t text. Draco cut any and all contact completely. 

And he didn’t even have the guts to tell her to her face. No, she had to learn by asking around, _begging_ for negligible pieces of information. They painted an all too clear picture: Blaise had cheated on him, so Draco left. She remembers being furious with both of them, shouting at Blaise and cursing Draco’s name. 

It didn’t help. Draco didn’t return, Blaise moved on. 

Just before he ran away Draco had given her this book, _I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, _and she had desperately searched for a code, clues to follow that would lead to him. But it either didn’t have any or she never figured it out - and her intelligence has always been a point of pride for her, so the truth must be that Draco simply didn’t care to leave her a message. 

It was cruel, cold, and cowardly, the way Draco left her, but she adjusted. Pansy held her head high. She stopped wondering why he left. Didn’t dwell on the past. Made new friends. Joined a knitting circle. She was doing fine without him in her life. 

Until he called. After five years of _absolutely nothing, _Draco finally did call.

They say _Be careful what you wish for_. They are right. 

Wishes coming true are a terrible thing, they will never end up the way you imagined. 

Instead of apologising for being a spineless, leaving coward ad begging her forgiveness, he pretended like nothing was amiss, like he hadn’t disappeared, like nothing had changed. 

And suddenly she was overcome with rage, all the anger and hurt she had bottled up and ignored breaking free. It never left, merely simmering and ready to lash out any second. 

But Draco had _apologised_, had _begged_ her to listen to him. They had grown up learning to never apologise for anything, to look down on anyone demanding them to do so. But Draco _had_ apologised, and while it had been vague it wasn’t any less significant. 

She should have ignored him, should have denied him and told him he was too late. She didn’t. 

She told herself it was because she wanted to prove his ridiculous amnesia excuse to be a poor thought out lie, because she wanted to confront him and maybe yell at him, because she wants closure. And while all that is true, it is not the reason she is currently in a car on her way to the little cafe Draco had always loved. 

No, the reason Pansy agreed to meet him is that she misses him, that she still cares and probably always will care. 

Draco doesn’t need to know that though. She would hear what he has to say, would stay reserved and make her judgement. And if she doesn’t like what he’s saying, she would leave. He is not entitled to her time, they are not friends anymore and she doesn’t owe him anything. In fact, she is doing him a huge favour by showing up at all. 

Draco made his decision, and now he has to live with it. 

“We have arrived, Miss Parkinson.” 

“Thank you, Harwell. It’s impossible to predict how long this will take, so stay close.” Taking one deep breath, Pansy accepts the hand offered to her and gets out of the car. 

Spotting Draco is easy, that hair of his unmistakable. That hasn’t changed, though it’s longer now, the style not so terribly severe , and falling into his eyes. Surprisingly little has changed. The only visible alteration is the sweater that can’t possibly be his own, too big for him and covered in paint smudges, though he doesn’t look any less comfortable for it. He is fiddling with the sleeves, a nervous habit he apparently never managed to control. It fills Pansy with a vicious glee to see him this apprehensive before their reunion. He ought to be. 

His posture and mannerisms are exactly the same, Pansy isn’t sure if that is comforting or disconcerting. On one hand, five years are bound to change a person and that Draco seems precisely like the day left doesn’t sir right with her, but on the other hand she doesn’t know how she would have reacted had Draco grown into someone else; this way she might get what she always wanted, her best friend back. 

Before she can change her mind, Pansy walks up to Draco, gracefully sitting down and catching his attention. 

“Pansy, it’s good to see you! Thank you for agreeing to this, it means a lot to me.” It is painful to see Draco like this, unsure and obviously distressed. Pansy feels guilty for being the cause of his misery, until she remembers that he has no one but _himself_ to blame. Thus resolved, she banishes all feelings of sympathy and levels him with a cold look. Draco meets it head on, though his fidgeting gets worse. 

“I am only here so you can apologise in person and I can get some overdue closure.” It’s a lie. A small one, but a lie nevertheless. For a moment she fears Draco wouldn’t believe her, they had always been uncannily good at telling when the other is lying, but he simply nods, accepting it without question. It should feel good, a victory, but it doesn’t. 

“Of course, but I would ask you to hear me out first. 

“As I told you over the phone, I recently got into a car accident. Ask mother and father if you don’t believe me, they were at the hospital with me. I suffered some brain damage, though the doctors were unable to ascertain the severity of it. All they can say is that I am experiencing a form of amnesia, concerning everything of the last five years. 

“So you see, I don’t remember what happened. I have no idea what I did to you, or how I got here, or even _what I am doing here. _

“That is why I called. I am lost, Pansy, and I need my best friend.” He keeps his eyes focused on his hands, avoiding looking at her until he addresses her directly. The story is too convenient, too easy a way out, but Pansy finds she is believing every word of it now. Draco looks so beseeching, pleading for her to believe him. And she does, cursing herself, she does believe him. 

That does not mean he is forgiven. The mere fact that he doesn’t remember doing it does not erase the action itself. 

“You don’t remember, do you? Well, let me enlighten you. You _left_, Draco. Just like that, without goodbye or explanation. And I was even _happy _for you! I thought you finally decided to stop complaining and move out already, that you would _call me_. You can’t even _begin_ to understand how much it hurt when you _abandoned _me like that. 

“And now here you are, wanting to be friends, as if nothing ever happened. But that is not good enough, Draco. Just because _you _forgot, _I_ haven’t. How can I know that you won’t run away like that again? How could I _trust_ you again? 

“No. Forget it, I’m done.” To his credit, Draco looks suitably horrified at his actions. 

“Pansy, I don’t know what to say, I sincerely apologise for my behaviour. I can’t even begin to understand why I would leave you like that, it seems frankly impossible that I would. Not that I’m accusing you of lying! I just don’t know why I would ever do something like that.” He seems honestly confused and dejected, and maybe that should change her mind about leaving, but she got what she came for, and now she needs to process, alone. 

“Well neither do I, since you never called to explain yourself. This was nice and all, but I do have to go now.” Without looking back to where Draco is frantically calling her back, Pansy strides down the street to where Harwell is waiting for her. 

* * *

With an exhausted sigh Harry slumps against the door. Today was one of those days where he was torn in five directions at the same time, everyone needing something of utmost importance that only you can help with, no one having even a second to spare. Now that he is home he just wants to have a quiet evening, talk to Draco, and maybe cook something nice. Draco is an expert at lifting Harry’s mood, the thought alone makes him smile. “Honey, I’m home.” 

Harry waits a second but receives no answer. That is hardly uncommon, Draco is often too absorbed in whatever it is he is doing to even register him or plain refuses to answer, calling him cliched and embarrassing. His fond smile betrays him every time, proving Draco enjoys the ridiculous announcement as much as Harry does. Other times he wouldn’t be home at all, still in his atelier and working, though he usually lets Harry know in those cases. 

Checking his phone to make sure he didn’t miss a message about Draco being in the atelier, Harry starts looking for his husband. His first go to is always the library, Draco can often be found hidden somewhere between the shelves or lounging in an armchair. But today the library is empty, and Harry is forced to keep searching. Not that he minds even in the slightest. 

He finds Draco in his office, sitting between piles of documents Harry needs to go over and sign, frowning at the paper in front of him, biting on his pen before scribbling down something with a sudden bolt of energy. It makes for an adorable picture and Harry almost doesn’t want to interrupt him from his scheming. Only almost though. He knocks on the door, hoping not to startle him but nevertheless enjoying how he jolts up, surprised by the noise. Draco glares at him. 

“Hey, I was wondering if you were hungry?” Draco keeps glaring, humming in acknowledgement before bowing back over his paper. Well, that was not quite what Harry had in mind. 

“Great! Me too, so I’m starting dinner, do you want to help?” He usually didn’t have to ask Draco, it was nearly impossible to keep him out of the kitchen when Harry was cooking, chattering on about this or that. But today Draco just made a dismissive noise, not bothering to even look up this time. 

Abruptly Harry remembers; amnesia, Draco has no idea he liked to watch Harry cook. How could he have forgotten? He feels guilty. Draco has to struggle with it every waking moment, and Harry just _forgot_. But he could make up for it, he could give Draco another piece of their life together, until Draco had all the pieces and could fit it together. 

“You see, the thing is, you love doing that. You sit on the counter and tell me what I’m doing wrong. Don’t you at least want to try?” 

“Potter I said _no_, how often until you understand that? This is more important than your pointless play pretend.” 

“Fine then, stay here and brood over whatever you are doing, that is so much more important than recovering your memory.” He would have slammed the door, but it opened in the wrong direction and the manoeuvre would be more awkward then satisfactory.They had both learnt that lesson the hard way. Instead, he punches the door frame, cursing when the wood splinters and digs into his skin. Draco is finally fully paying attention to him, eyes wide and staring disbelieving at his bleeding hand. When he catches Harry looking though, he sneers and goes back to his paper. With a defeated sigh Harry leaves to clean the cuts. 

Thankfully the cuts aren’t too bad, look worse than they really are and should be all but invisible tomorrow. Still fuming, Harry forces his attentions on preparing dinner and telling himself he doesn’t want Draco here anyway if he is being a prick. 

Quickly calming down with the familiar motions, it becomes harder and harder to deny that he misses him. The kitchen is too quiet without his commentary, too empty without Draco claiming half of it. Without Draco it feels like a chore. 

Harry calls Draco down to eat when he is done, almost not expecting him to show up and instead continue his sulking. But it doesn’t even take particularly long for Draco to appear in the door frame, hesitant to fully enter the room. 

“How is your hand?” Harry didn’t expect an apology of course, Draco hardly ever apologises with words, instead taking actions he later doesn’t even acknowledges to make up for it. Draco blames his upbringing for this quirk, resentfully telling Harry how _Malfoys don’t apologise_. But Harry has grown to like it, learnt to recognise the thoughtful actions for what they are, and prefer them over an empty phrase.

This, however, is not so much an apology as a polite question, only asked so as to avoid being rude. It is obvious to Harry that he _is_ sorry, mostly recognisable by the suspicious silence. Draco neither taunts, nor complains, nor teases, he mutely stands in front of Harry and watches him warily. More subtle but no less telling, is his how tense he is or how he won’t quite meet Harry’s eyes. 

“It’s fine. Come on in already.” Draco is frozen in the door, now not even pretending to look at Harry but inspecting his own hands. Harry waits patiently for what he has to say. 

“I could do the clean up, if you need to give your hand a rest.” A bright blush creeps over Draco’s face, erasing any last doubts that _this_, the offer to do a task he doesn’t want to do, is the apology. Usually Draco does that anyway, Harry cooked so it’s fair and balanced. So, just like Draco watched Harry work, Harry watches Draco dance through the kitchen as he carries around dishes and wipes down surfaces. But Draco doesn’t remember that what he offered was already expected, so Harry decides to accept it as an apology. He can tell Draco tomorrow. They will find their way back eventually. 

“That would be appreciated, thank you.” 


	4. Chapter 4

“-so now we have a dog. Honestly, I’m astounded it took this long for them to convince us. As soon as we have everything prepared she will live at the orphanage on a permanent basis, for now Ron and Hermione have her.” Draco makes only a vague humming noise, idly moving food around on his plate. Harry frowns at him; Draco loves hearing him tell stories about the children, he is as invested in them as Harry himself is. To seem him this disinterested is rare and usually only means one thing - he’s worrying about something and doesn’t want to burden Harry with it. Harry sighs, they are both exceptionally good at keeping problems to themselves, not wanting to trouble the other. The good thing is, they know each other well enough to recognise when this is happening and have become skilled at handling it. 

“Something on your mind, Draco?” At the sound of his name he looks up, startled out of whatever thoughts he was having. 

“Oh, no, not at all. You were saying?”

“Come on, no need to pretend. You clearly weren’t paying attention, so what worries you?” Draco regards him with calculation, considering the offer, before laying down his cutlery, shifting his whole focus on Harry. 

“I am assuming you know Pansy?” After a short nod as confirmation he continues. “It seems we had a falling out and she now won’t speak to me anymore. Apparently, I moved away and cut all contact with her, which sounds unrealistic and unlike something I would do, but I also cannot fathom why she would lie about this. 

“She has every right to be angry with me, of course, but I wish we could mend this. It is difficult though, considering that I can’t remember or retrace my actions. I have been pondering it all day, but it’s futile. My sole hope is for Pansy to forgive me and grant me a second chance.

“Unless you can offer some insight to my motivation and thought progress there?” Harry can’t help but chuckle, this is typical for his husband, always thinking of the most obvious solution only at the very last. He rushes to reassure him though, when he sees the affronted look on his face. 

“I’m sorry, I swear I’m not laughing at your problem, merely on how you handled it. Of course I know about this, you often spoke of wanting to make it right. You see, you never planned to leave her, you wanted to call her as soon as you settled in and had something to present. But you underestimated how long that would take and how much work it would be, and before you knew it too much time had passed. It would have been awkward, and you never quite gathered the courage needed to face her wrath. And while I don’t know her personally, from what you told me that is understandable.” He had hoped the words would comfort Draco, but he just stares at him, disbelieving. 

“So you are saying, that I didn’t call Pansy, my best friend, because I was too proud and later too scared?” Yes, that is exactly what Harry is saying, not that he would admit that. Draco knows it well enough, speaking it out loud would only make him deny it and cause him to storm off. 

“What I am saying, is that you made an honest mistake and some choices that anyone could empathise with. But it’s never too late, it just gets increasingly uncomfortable, that’s all. You could tell her now, I’m sure she would understand.” Draco is defensive, but less so now that he knows Harry doesn’t judge him. 

“That remains to be seen, but thank you for telling me.” He goes back to shuffling his food around, clearly uncomfortable, ready to change the subject. 

“You were saying something about adopting a dog?” 

* * *

There is blood on Draco’s favourite cushion. 

The read smear stands in stark contrast, ruining the fabric and breaking the pattern. Harry is in the kitchen, making coffee and pretending this doesn’t concern him at all, feigning innocence. As if Draco wouldn’t make the connection between his bloody hand, the fact that Harry slept on the couch, and used his sullied cushion. Harry didn’t even possess the decency to clean up after himself , leaving the evidence with its glaring implication for Draco to find first thing in the morning. Draco is still staring when Harry enters the room, completely ignoring the mood and cheerfully wishing him a good morning. 

“Is it? For whom, Potter?” Harry, totally underestimating the seriousness of the situation, has the audacity to laugh at him, mumbling something about grumpy cats and coffee. 

“Oh no, you don’t get to blame that on me, _you de_secratedmy cushion, drenched it in your blood! What do you have to say for yourself?” To his credit, Harry seems honestly confused. That only proves it wasn’t a conscious action, it neither excuses him nor does it repair the damage. Draco watches him expectantly as Harry surveys the room. Finally, his eyes land on the cushion and the coin drops. Or maybe it doesn’t, because instead of apologising and working to rectify the situation, Harry laughs. 

“I don’t think you are in any position to laugh right now.” Harry immediately stops, adopting an exaggerated serious expression and nods gravely. Unbelievable, he should be _begging forgiveness_, not making fun of Draco!

“You are right, of course. I apologise. This was a tragic accident and by no means fuelled by ill intent, so I am confident you won’t hold it against me.” Draco is _absolutely not _charmed. At all. Because his mocking seriousness is insulting and not endearing, and he still hasn’t grasped the full extent of his carelessness. So no, Draco does not have to suppress even the tiniest smile. 

“That was my favourite cushion you ruined in your _tragic accident_.” Pressing this important piece of information is also not sulking, though Harry would certainly interpret it as such. At least his insistence has served to break Harry out of his act, making him laugh again. Belatedly Draco realises this shouldn’t be a good thing, he shouldn’t be this ridiculously pleased by causing that laugh. 

“You _favourite_, is it now? You don’t remember a thing, Draco, you don’t know if you even _liked_ this particular cushion.” Draco gives up suppressing his smile, stops resisting Harry’s charm puling him in. 

“How dare you question my judgement, Mister. Of course it’s my favourite! Have you seen it before you _massacred_ it? How could it possibly _not_ be my favourite? I don’t need five years of looking at every single aspect of it to know that.” 

“Fine, fine, your favourite.” Harry waves his hand in what would have been a conceding gesture, were it not for the slight flinch as he moves his hand too quickly. Now that Draco is paying attention to it, he feels bad for not thinking of it sooner. Of course his hand would hurt, the skin is ragged and inflamed, obviously in need of competent medical attention. 

“How is your hand?” Harry grimaces, only bothering to give a verbal answer when Draco raises an eyebrow. 

“Its fine, should be all healed again in a day or two. No need to worry.” Draco does _not_ worry. Why should he? Harry chose to punch a door, now he must bear the consequences. It does not affect Draco at all. 

“I’m not worried about _you_, I merely seek to avoid the further suffering of cushions. It also looks less than pleasant, it’s only polite to cover it.”

“Well you don’t have to look at it, if it offends your delicate sensibilities.” 

“I understand that you want to feel tough by not treating it, but I will not accept such behaviour. The cuts will get infected and you will get seriously sick and guess who will have to take care of you then. Not happening. Stop sulking and come let me take a look at this.” Without waiting for a response Draco marches towards the bathroom, trusting Harry will follow him. 

Once there, he rummages through the cabinets, assessing their medical supplies. They are pleasantly well stocked. He feared the worst after hearing Harry’s blasé words, but it appears he had always objected to Harry’s attitude and kept a good stock of the basics, prepared to patch Harry up. He doesn’t dwell on the images this thought provokes, quickly refocusing his attentions on the pots and tubes before him. 

Draco settles on a simple bandage, afraid to do more damage than good with anything else. He will send Harry to the clinic for a more specialised treatment, but this will have to do for now. Intending to have Harry soak his hand and clean the cuts, he fills the basin with warm water. Harry comes up behind him, humming as he watches the water rising. 

“Surely you know what to do. Put your hand in the water.” Draco impatiently gestures, unsettled by the tender look Harry gives him. 

“I can’t believe you were just going to wait for it to get worse, you could have lost your hand like that! It’s a wonder you’ve survived this long with how irresponsible you are!” Harry laughs faintly again, creating small waves in the water.

“Don’t you laugh at me! People die from paper-cuts, is that really how you want to die? Now sit down so I can take care of this.” He manoeuvres Harry to sit on the edge of the bathtub and kneels down to inspect the damage. Harry’s hand is massive, cradled in both of Draco’s. He is gently prodding, lecturing Harry about the possible consequences of untreated wounds. Harry is chuckling, clearly not taking this seriously. 

“Fine, keep laughing, but do you know who can’t laugh? Someone who's _dead_.” He might be wrapping the bandages tighter than would be necessary, not enough to be harmful of course, just to hurt a little. Harry stops laughing, bringing his free hand up to Draco’s face and forcing it up, looking him in the eyes. 

“I’m sorry for laughing. Thank you for taking care of me, Draco.” He leans down and presses a soft kiss on his forehead. Draco stares at him, flustered and blushing, quickly looking back down again. 

* * *

The room is small and cosy, smelling heavenly of tea and homemade apple tart, the constant soft clicking of knitting needles filling the air. Everyone is totally enraptured by Ruth’s ranting about her grandson and his-soon-to-wife. Usually Pansy would be too, there is nothing quite as delightful as some juicy gossip and Ruth always delivers, but today she has her own moron to worry about. Still, she at least tries to listen, wouldn’t do to miss something just because some boy decided to call her. 

“I told them to wait for spring, winter weddings are always so bland and boring. Not to forget, it is too cold by far for any sane person to want to sit outside all day long, watching some tedious ceremony. They will have to move inside then, but the bride, that spoilt wretch, she throws a tantrum when anyone even dares to mention it. She wants to be out in the open, to be _surrounded by nature and her spirit_. Some fairy tale - winter wonderland is what she wants, I tell you. Ridiculous, totally and utterly ridiculous. My poor Anthony, I don’t know what he sees in her. But if he won’t listen to his wise old granny, he will have to learn the hard way. Might do him some good.” 

“Very true, Ruth, very true. If he doesn’t appreciate your experience and insights, he shall not get them.” A collective agreeing noise is uttered and someone complains about today’s youth, Ethelprobably. 

“I think it is a most lovely thought. A marriage in front of nature’s spirit is blessed with sunny days and beautiful flowers. I think if I am to ever marry, I would want something like that too. Though you are right, Ruth, winter is not the most spiritually strong season.” Of course Luna- sweet, dreamy Luna - would love this. Pansy can’t help but be charmed by her. 

Luna is something else, hair a different colour every month, love for anything and everything alive, real or imaginary, and cryptic wisdom - she is unlike anyone Pansy has ever encountered. Pansy is helplessly besotted. 

What had never before failed to make her smile like some insipid fool, only makes her lips twitch a little today. She is barely even listening, knitting with an uncharacteristic fervour, channelling her frustrations into the innocent scarf ravelling into existence under her hands. Pansy can almost hear Luna in her mind, lecturing her about being careful what energy she gifts her creations with. Pansy doesn’t care, she needs an outlet, and infusing a scarf with a short temper is preferable to snapping at old ladies; they would snap right back and then they would have a fight. 

Her half-hearted participation in the conversation has not gone unnoticed, however. 

“Enough moping now, what is bothering you, child?” Would anyone else dare to speak to Pansy like that, she would inform them in no uncertain terms to mind their own business. But she loves these women, Margret especially - not that she would ever admit to that - which is why she can’t insult them by pretending to be fine or lying about the source of her troubles. 

“It is nothing, hardly important. An old friend is back, sudden and unexpected, that’s all.” She would have left it at that, changed the topic blatantly and hoping they would go along with it, but the expectant looks directed her way make her drop that thought almost immediately. They would get their answers, one way or other. Best to surrender them freely. 

“His name is Draco. We used to be the best of friends, siblings in all but blood, until he left one day, no explanation, no goodbye, nothing. At first I was convinced he’d call, then I started hoping, then I moved on. Now, _five years later_, he finally called.” She hesitates, unsure about how much to reveal. 

“He lost his memory in an accident, doesn’t remember a single thing about leaving and wants to be friends again. But I don’t think I can do that, I can’t let him do that to me again. Just because he doesn’t remember doing it doesn’t mean he didn’t, or wont again.” That was too much, too _vulnerable_ to be said out loud. Pansy starts knitting again, more to have something to do than to continue the scarf. 

“It will be all right, I just need to adjust to this new situation. Nothing is changed ultimately, I can go on living without him.” That is what she has been telling herself since she met Draco. It changes nothing, not what he did, what she felt or how she lives now. Her life is good, she is happy, she is almost ready to ask Luna out, she doesn’t need Draco. He has no right to invade her life and turn it upside down all over again. This isn’t a bad rom-com and she will not tolerate it. 

With a decisive nod Pansy focuses back on her scarf, knitting in more of her frustration. 

“Oh my little flower, how foolish can you be? If this troubles you so much, you cannot simply ignore it. It wouldn’t be right to either of you. You are stronger than this.” Pansy clenches her jaw to keep herself from saying something rude and knits with more intensity than is strictly warranted. 

“Now listen to me. Forgiveness is never easy. Nobody is entitled to it or obligated to grant it. Most of the time though, it is well worth it. 

“I knew a girl once, a long time ago. Mary, I loved her with my whole heart.We did everything together, could barely be separated, our mothers despaired of us. We never fought, but this one time. I don’t even know what it was about anymore. I’m sure it was something trivial, easily worked out, but we deemed it the height of injustice. Both of us said terrible, foul things. Things you don’t say, least of all to your loved ones. But we said them, screamed them out loud for everyone to hear, regretting it almost immediately but continuing nonetheless. 

“We didn’t speak to each other after that. I avoided her whenever possible, and I can only assume Marydid the same. I was mending my heart, when my parents told me we would move away, leaving me no time to process and realise the consequences. I didn’t protest too much, I thought I had nothing to stay for anyway. 

“We moved and I was determined to start my life anew, to ignore the hurt and regret. Mary wrote me letters, many at first but growing fewer and fewer. I burned every single one of them, unread. 

“I read of her wedding in the same newspaper that I read of her death. 

“I deeply regret how things went between Mary and me. I can also admit, though it pains me, that the lack of contact and reconciliation is my fault entirely. I was too proud to give her a chance, too busy telling myself I don’t need her. Mary deserved better, _we_ deserved better. I would change it, if I could, without any hesitation.“ Margret seems far away for a moment, obviously lost in memories of Mary, or imagining the life they could have had. 

“What do we learn from this, child?” It is clear what she wants to hear, the same things everybody always says and feels wise for. But their situations are completely different. Pansy didn’t do anything wrong, they didn’t fight and it’s not even _in the least_ about pride. Yes, she deserves better than being called up whenever Draco is bored and dropped whenever it pleases him. That isn’t pride, it’s self-worth. 

“Life is short and you regret the things you didn’t do more than things you did do. And I _know_ that, I do. But it’s not that simple. What if he walks away again? How can I _trust_ him?” 

“Get it together! Of course he could run again, men are stupid like that. But that doesn’t mean _you_ have to be stupid, too.” Before Pansy can assure her that she is by no means stupid, Ruth continues. 

“You can’t live your life trying not to get hurt, taking no risks. You _will be hurt_, that is how life goes. Some things, some _people_, are worth the heartache though. Don’t give them up because you are too scared to take the risk.” She resents that implication. Pansy is _neither_ scared nor is she _stupid_, the thought alone is absurd. She is about to object, when she is shushed by the others. Pansy goes back to her knitting. 

“What you need to ask yourself, is if your Draco is worth it.” That is actually valuable advice, not that she would say that, after being called scared and foolish. 

“Pansy, do you know the story of the fire spirits? They used to be everywhere, dancing day and night, being a light and proof of true, pure and unconditional love to everyone. They were magnificent, loved and adored. They still would be, were it not for one too proud, too petty, and too heartbroken, who cursed the fire spirits for daring to be the symbol of something they had stopped believing in. The curse was meant to separate them for all eternity, but love was stronger and so it is only is effective in daylight. Every night, the fire spirits find each other again, dancing as if they were never separated at all. They are known as fireflies now.” As so often with Luna, what she says makes a strange amount of sense, once you think about it. But Pansy doesn’t even need to think much, just envisioning the fireflies, dancing happily in the night, reunited, makes her smile. 

It is hard to admit, but they are right, all of them. They always are. If they say Pansy should reconsider, she will reconsider. She would not, however, give them the satisfaction of telling them so. Judging by the smug grins on their faces, they didn’t need her too. 

It seems it is time for Pansy to stick her nose where it doesn’t belong. She is the best at giving unsolicited advice, after all. 

* * *

“That can’t be true, I refuse to believe it, tell me he didn’t!” Draco is laughing, he can’t help it, the image is too hilarious. And if that alone weren’t enough, Pansy is laughing too, and her laughter has always been contagious. 

“I swear by all that is holy he did! I have pictures as proof, too. I can show you over lunch if that is what it takes for you to believe me.” She shoves at him and pulls a face that is supposed to be indignant, but she is laughing and it is unrecognisable as a result. Draco had missed her more than he thought possible. 

“Lunch sounds perfect. Did you have anything specific in mind?” The question is unnecessary, Pansy always knows exactly where she wants to go. Draco often teases her for it and protests her choice just for the sake of it, but today he plans on following her without any complaint. 

He feels guilty for leaving her the way he did, and although she accepted the explanation as Harry had given it, Draco thinks he needs to make up for his behaviour. That is what you do - when you mess up, you make it right. Draco cannot change what happened, but he can change how he treats her moving forward. They would end up eating where Pansy wants one way or another, why not give her the pleasure of commanding him around. 

“There is this new place I have wanted to try forever, it is supposed to be fantastic.” Here, carrying bags of new clothes he actually likes to replace those he found in the closet, being dragged around by his hands by Pansy, Draco feels like himself. It is a relief, to something familiar once more, to not have to wonder what is expected of him, what he is even doing in this life. 

Fondly staring after Pansy and lost in thought, Draco doesn’t watch where he is going, promptly walking into someone. He stumbles, losing his footing and is about to fall, when he is caught in strong arms. 

“Didn’t see you there, are you alright?” Draco knows that voice, intimately knows it, and instinctively clings closer to the man holding him. 

“Draco? Is that really you?” He looks up at his saviour and meets his eyes with a fond smile. 

“Yes, Blaise, it really is me.” Blaise gazes down at him, flabbergasted and disbelieving. He is holding Draco, pressed close enough he can feel his heart beat, close enough Draco could kiss him, if he were to stand on his tip toes, tilt his head back a little - it would be so easy. Blaise looks like he has the same thoughts, eyes fixated on his lips, breath coming in short gasps. Draco slides his hands up Blaise’s chest, grasping his collar to pull him down and leans in, eyes closing -

“Draco Malfoy, you stop that right now!” Blaise goes tense, Draco’s eyes snap open and he wants to leap away, but is still held securely in Blaise’s arms, so that he ends up pressed closer and wildly looking around for Pansy, intending to yell at her for ruining the moment. 

On second thought, maybe he wouldn’t accuse her of anything right now. She is fuming, staring at where he stands with Blaise and watches as he carefully disentangles them. Honestly, she is overreacting, not that he would tell her that. 

“I’m guessing you are here with Pansy?” Blaise doesn’t sound happy about the interruption either, glaring at Pansy and keeping close even after letting him go. 

“You are guessing correctly, yes. However did you possibly know?” Blaise smiles at him, and Draco feels himself automatically smiling back. He doesn’t want to let him leave. 

“Would you like to join us for lunch? Pansy wanted to test some new place and we could catch up.” Without waiting for either of them to answer, Draco pulls Blaise with him and gestures for Pansy to lead the way, enjoying the way Blaise’s hands encompasses his own and his low chuckle. Pansy is less amused, and Draco is sure she will lecture him later, but for now she settles on shooting another glare at them, before turning around and continuing on. 

It doesn’t take long until Pansy declares they have reached their destination. The cafe is bustling with people, sitting at tables or serving goods, flowers are blooming on the window sills and decorating the tables and the smell of coffee hangs in the air. It feels warm and welcoming. 

Pansy walks straight ahead, stopping in front of the table she wants to sit at. She does that every time. Pansy comes into a restaurant of any sort, scouts out the perfect table, and discreetly convinces whoever sat there before her to vacate it. Draco doesn’t mind, not if it means he can press closer to Blaise again without Pansy frowning at them. All too soon their table is cleared, Pansy looking smug, the dismissed blokes looking angry and cowed, and they have to move apart, however reluctant they are to do so. 

Pansy is reading the menu when Draco and Blaise sit down, not bothering to acknowledge them in any way. It is strange behaviour for her, and he has no idea what brought this on. They were having a great day, exchanging five years worth of stories - Pansy, that is, Draco could only comment on what he missed - and thoroughly enjoying themselves. In fact, Pansy only begun acting differently once Blaise joined them, at Draco’s insistence. Did they have a fight and are not on speaking terms? If so, why didn’t she tell him? 

“Lovely weather we are having, don’t you agree?” Draco stares at her. She is looking at Blaise, _meaningfully_, as if speaking in secret code Draco doesn’t know. And it must be code, because usually Pansy is the best at subtly conveying messages, but this doesn’t make any sense. He vaguely hears Blaise answering something, certainly equally bland and polite, but is too preoccupied with trying to understand what Pansy meant. 

He is in fact still thinking about it, when the waiter interrupts their excruciatingly pleasant conversation. They order an assortment of sandwiches and tea before an awkward silence falls, no one picking back up on the conversation. Well, this is getting to be ridiculous. 

“Blaise, how have you been?” Draco is determined to make this work, whatever happened between the two of them. Pansy is his best friend and Blaise is his fiancé - though he probably isn’t anymore. The news hit Draco suddenly, causing him to reel back from where he sat to close to Blaise. He turns to look at Pansy, ignoring Blaise’s question for now, finding her smug and slightly sympathetic. 

“Pansy, would you be so kind as to tell me what happened?” 

“What happened? Darling I think that is for Blaise to tell. Though I _know,_ of course.” The last is said for Blaise, not Draco, so he turns towards him again, waiting for answers even though he seems as confused as Draco. The only one who knows what is going on is Pansy, but she isn’t saying anything. 

“Okay fine, in the interest of continuing this conversation, _I _will tell Blaise what happened, so _he_ can tell you about your engagement. Does a girl have to do everything by herself around here?

“Our Draco here conveniently landed himself in an accident, losing his memory of the last five years. For all he knows, we are best friends and the two of you are happily engaged. He does, however, have a husband now.” Pansy props her chin on her hands, watching gleefully as understanding washes over Blaise’s face.

“What, Harry? What does he even matter right now? Why didn’t we marry, Blaise, what happened?” As grateful as Draco is for explaining his situation, she is focusing entirely on the wrong things. 

“Stop Draco, let me think about this for a moment, would you? First things first, are you alright?” He waits for Draco to nod before going on. 

“I’m glad, truly, I am. Then, you are married? Should I congratulate you?” Why is everyone this fixated on his married status today? Nothing a fast and clean divorce can’t change.

“Yes, it seems I married. I hardly know the man, though he is nice enough I guess. But Blaise, I know _you_, I know that this between us is _good_. You have no reason to be jealous, though I can’t deny I like it. You are more important to me.” He takes his hand again, trying to reassure both Blaise and himself. If only Blaise would be willing, they could get through this. 

“Won’t you tell me why I was in a position to marry someone else in the first place? What happened to us? Why did you let me go, Blaise?” Draco can read only conflict on his face, he is staring down to where their hands are entwined, not meeting his eyes. It scares Draco a little. Is this the moment Blaise tells him he decided he plain didn’t want to marry Draco? 

“Oh no, I left you too, didn’t I? I left you like I left Pansy and my parents, I didn’t even tell you, did I.” Blaise nods, confused but confirming. Then he winces and glares at Pansy who apparently kicked him under the table. Utter nonsense of course, not that Pansy wouldn’t do something like that - she totally would - but at least not unprovoked. Whatever happened there, it would have to wait, Draco has a crisis to work through. 

This is a terrible revelation. What did Draco _think_ when he left? Did he even _think at all_? It sure doesn’t seem that way. He hurt everyone he knows and loves, because he wanted to prove - what? His independence? In that case Draco failed spectacularly. He became an _artist_, probably depending on his husband for financial support. Father always told him to study law, he could be on his way to a respectable and secure life by now, truly independent with a husband he has known and loved for as long as he can remember. 

Grieving over what-ifs is no use, all he can do now is attempt to clean up this mess he created. 

“I apologise, Blaise. I would like to explain why I left the way I did, but I don’t completely understand it myself, so I doubt it would be helpful. I can’t begin to fathom what possessed me to leave the way I did. All I have to say for myself, is that I deeply regret hurting you and that I hope you can forgive me.” 

“Oh Draco, it wasn’t only your fault. I have to apologise as well, you needed me and I wasn’t there for you. We were under so much stress with the wedding preparations, I should have made more time for you, for us. I always regretted that, after you left. I should have been better for you. I’d like for us to be friends, at least.” 

“Yes, I would like that very much.” Draco is smiling, leaning closer again. They would figure it out, he would not lose Blaise. 


	5. Chapter 5

“What about _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_?” Hermione is holding a book, frowning down at the cover. 

“No, we have that already.”

“Honestly, Harry, I need some more information than _I want to buy Draco a book that will make him smile_. I said I’d be happy to help, and I am, but you keep rejecting my suggestions. Are you even searching? Harry?” Hermione snaps her fingers in his face, pulling his attention back to the present. 

“Sorry, yes. I’m just - Draco, you know?” Draco. Hermione’s sympathetic grimace sums the situation up quite nicely, better than Harry’s vague allusion. 

“Oh Harry, how is Draco, aside from the obvious? Is he settling in? I think it would help if you would reintroduce him to his social environment, I could organise something - a kind of welcome back / get well soon party maybe, show support. Or you could take him out, show him some of your favourite places. I can recommend you some great books too.” Hermione continues listing ideas to help Draco’s memory return, but Harry tunes her out. He knows all these things already - tries them already. The progress so far is virtually non-existent. 

Of course he is aware recovery takes time, can’t be rushed or forced. It’s frustrating though, having Draco while not having him at all. Sometimes, when Draco smiles privately at something, when he talks about Pansy or criticises their library it is like nothing is wrong, like he hasn’t completely changed. And he hasn’t, not completely. But then when he is cold, is offended by a remark meant to make him smile, when he treats Harry like an afterthought, those moments are the worst. Because this is not the Draco he knows, not the Draco he loves and married. 

Harry doesn’t know _who_ he is in those instances, if he is the son Lucius and Narcissa molded, Pansy’s best friend or Blaise’s fiancé - Harry can only assume this is the person his Draco had stepped away from, had reformed and changed. He doesn’t know what else to do to make Draco see, if he wants to do anything more at all. He always knew Draco missed Pansy dearly, even his parents and Blaise, though in a more complicated way. He doesn’t want to be the one to take them away from him, now that he finally got them back. He _won’t be _the one. That is Draco’s choice to make and his alone. All Harry can do is give him time, support and love. 

“I don’t think throwing a party with dozens of people he doesn’t know is the right way to go about this. Thank you for offering though, I appreciate it. I’m trying to give him time, space to pace his recovery however he likes. It’s slow going but at least it _is_ going_._” Hermione frowns at him. 

“This can’t be easy for you, I can’t even imagine how I’d feel if Ron couldn’t remember me. But Harry, we worry about you. You don’t seem to smile much lately, and _of course we get that_, but you deserve to be happy too. You keep giving your heart to Draco, you sacrifice too much. What does he do to make you smile, Harry?” 

“That’s enough Hermione! You don’t know _anything_ about what either of us is going through so don’t you dare judge him! He is trying his best, he doesn’t owe you or me an explanation. 

“Do I want him to be back to normal? Of course I do! I miss him so much, it’s unbelievable. I miss how he laughs at stupid jokes, I miss the paint everywhere, I miss the banter and prickliness, the intimacy and trust. My husband doesn’t know who I am, of course I am not happy! Is that Draco’s fault though? No, no it’s not and I won’t let you blame him. 

“Unless you have more to accuse Draco of, I will be leaving now.” Harry pauses, needing some air after his angry rant. Hermione just stares at him, stunned into silence. She probably didn’t expect a violent outburst. He would feel bad about yelling at her later, but anger thrums through his body, searing hot and heavy, tempting and pushing. 

“That’s what I thought.” Not giving her the chance to answer or placate, Harry stands, turns around and leaves. 

* * *

The ice-cream is cold in Harry’s hand, seemingly already frozen against the container. He should have gotten a bag. It is a poor substitute for the book he originally wanted, personal and thoughtful, but now it had begun to melt, too. And the day had started so well, until Hermione saw fit to talk about things she doesn’t understand, accusing Draco of - Harry doesn’t even know. But it had ruined his mood entirely, causing him to storm out of there empty handed. 

Maybe he shouldn’t have brought the ice-cream. No gift is better than a mediocre one, isn’t it? Draco doesn’t even expect one. It would have been easy enough to return to the book store on his own, get Draco a gift he deserves, he would never know it needed two attempts. But it had felt like he failed him, inexplicably, and at least this way Harry has something to show he thought of him. 

“Honey, I’m home.” He doesn’t think he will get an answer, says it solely for the familiarity of it, longing for some tiny piece of their life back. The surprise is made all the more pleasant when he sees Draco coming to greet him. Seeing him settles something in Harry, something that had been on edge and pacing since his fight with Hermione. Yes, a book would have been preferable, but Draco would like the ice-cream too. Smiling mischievously, Harry hides the tub behind his back. 

“I brought you something, guess what and you might even get it.” He laughs at Draco’s offended expression. Not missing the calculating look in his eyes, Harry moves closer back to the door to shield his secret, prepared for him to try and cheat. 

“That doesn’t seem fair, you said it’s for me. Hand it over already.” Draco holds out his hand expectantly, as if Harry would give up this easily. He would be lying if he said it isn’t endearing though. 

“Sorry, love, not happening. You will have to guess or take it from me by force.” Draco’s answering smirk is all the warning he gets, before he is suddenly attacked. Attacked isn’t quite the right word, it’s more a squabble than an actual fight, both of them laughing when Draco triumphantly holds the tub, too busy bragging to even look at his prize. Harry watches him with a fond smile, quick to make a disappointed face when Draco looks at him. 

When he _does _deign to judge what he fought so hard for, he reacts with more enthusiasm than Harry dared to hope - almost squealing and cradling the tub in his hands. So much so, that he suddenly finds himself with a giddy Draco in his arms, mumbling his thanks. Harry is still trying to understand what happened, but hugs him back instinctively. 

Draco is known to get more excited than is considered appropriate over sweets. His husband has a gigantic sweet tooth, would live solely on sweets if it were feasible, though he thinks he is subtle about it. He’s not. There is the sugary sweet concoction he calls coffee, Harry refuses to do the same, the ‘secret’ drawer filled with sweets in his atelier, the fact that whatever fit he worked himself in, it’s never anything some good chocolate can’t fix. 

Yes, Harry had expected Draco to enjoy the ice-cream, had expected he would refuse to share with that smile that meant he wanted Harry to beg a little before quite happily feeding him some of it. 

He had _not_ expected for Draco to act as if he hadn’t had sweets in a decade. 

That is when it finally clicks. For all that Draco knows, he really _hasn’t_. Harry remembers him mentioning, in this offhanded way that signals _this is important and personal but please don’t make a big deal out of it_, that his father would almost never allow him to indulge in anything threatening his figure, making some exceptions but definitely ruled sweets out. It might not have been a decade, but he most certainly considers them a luxury. 

Which explains the exuberance, but not necessarily the hug. 

Draco has always been a tactile person, using touch to show affection and trust. He would constantly usurp your private space as soon as he deemed you worthy, excellent at discerning between token and honest protest, respecting the latter and ignoring the former. One of Harry’s favourite examples is their movie nights, when Draco would lay all over a loudly complaining Ron, pronouncing him to be the most comfy one and providing amusement to everyone watching. 

Since he lost his memory, touches had been scarce and only ever initiated by Harry. It makes sense, Draco doesn’t remember him, doesn’t know him, thus doesn’t touch him. It’s logical and yet hurts so much. It’s hard not to hold that against Draco sometimes. 

But here he is now, clinging to Harry like he hasn’t in far too long. Harry holds him closer, realising just how much he missed this. 

Draco seems to realise he got too swept up though, because he stills suddenly, making to move away and bring back proper distance between them. Harry tightens his grip around him, not willing to let him go after being without him for so long. Draco is stiff in his arms now, completely opposite to the koala like way he had clung to Harry seconds ago. He ignores this, trusting him to speak up if he wants out. 

Gradually Draco relaxes into him, their breathing synchronising.

Harry finally lets him go when he starts fidgeting. 

Draco is blushing, determinedly not looking at Harry as he fiddles with the ice-cream. “I should probably put this in the freezer before it’s totally lost.”

Then he basically flees. Harry laughs. If he had known how much Draco would appreciate the ice-cream, he wouldn’t have bothered with trying to find a book. That’s a lie, he would have and will again, only now he’d also bring sweets. Even if he doesn’t get hugged every time, the look on Draco’s face was more than worth it. Smiling at the thought, he follows him into the kitchen. He is starving. 

One look in the fridge is enough to confirm that he won’t find food here. He could have sworn he asked Draco to buy some groceries. Though maybe he didn’t, he usually doesn’t have to, so he might have forgotten. Since Harry works all day and is often home late and exhausted, Draco does the shopping. The system works well, even if Harry tends to end up with exotic and wild ingredients he has no idea what to do with. Draco would always claim he worries about Harry getting bored with what the local farmers market can cover - which is true - batting his eyelashes in that innocent manner that proves him to be more devious than concerned. Harry has gotten better over the years, taking everything Draco drags home and knowing already what to cook, telling his husband he needs to try harder if he wants to present a challenge. On one memorable occasion this led to Draco buying nothing but sweets - it was too much even for him, though he denies it to this day. 

Harry is standing in front of the empty fridge, as if staring might magically fill it. Draco joins him, carefully keeping his distance as he curiously peeks over Harry’s shoulder, thinking theres something to see. “Yes, I noticed that too. What are we going to do about dinner?” 

“What do you mean, you _noticed_? Why didn’t you buy new food then?” Draco makes a vaguely offended noise, clearly deeming such menial tasks beneath him. Harry should be angry, _would be _angry, at Draco not doing his part, but the unexpected hug had lifted his mood immensely, making him want to avoid an argument. There would be time to discuss this later. 

“Well I guess there’s nothing for it, I’ll have to take you out for dinner.”

* * *

The restaurant Harry takes him to is nothing like Draco expected, though in hindsight he doesn’t know how he could expect anything else. Harry would never choose anything luxurious, nothing like the places Blaise took Draco to. He lets out a wistful sigh, wishing he had been strong enough to decline Harry’s offer for dinner. But Harry hadn’t asked as much as declared, and Draco was still ecstatic and slightly embarrassed, eager to forget the moment had happened. So, when Harry hurried to get his coat, Draco simply followed him, telling himself he is only repaying he favour, being nice because Harry brought him ice-cream. In truth, he couldn’t say no to Harry. 

Now that he is seeing the interior’s disfigurement - he refuses to call it decor - Draco should reevaluate. This isn’t worth all the ice-cream in the world. Harry had assured him this was their favourite Italian restaurant – apparently they had so many favourite places to eat, they had to sort them into categories – and had sworn they came here all the time. He can only hope they dined here _despite_ their decorating choices. 

The tables stand too close together, hinting at a problem with space management or paying higher rent for larger accommodation. It’s also plain uncomfortable, having to press past haphazardly placed tables, and hearing all of your neighbours’ conversation. There is no privacy whatsoever, and the room is too hot and loud. 

Harry either doesn’t notice or care, unerringly heading for a table at the other side of the room, seemingly no different than the empty tables they pass on their way there. Draco decides there must be a sentimental reason for his choice. 

When they reach the table, Harry proudly presents it, pulling out a chair for Draco to sit. It’s ridiculous and unnecessary - the table is ordinary and Draco can pull his own chair out just fine, thank you - but he indulges Harry, biting back a smile, determined not to show any signs of being charmed. Because he is. Reluctantly and against all expectations, but Draco is charmed. Harry doesn’t need to know that, though. 

Harry has barely settled down opposite of Draco when the waitress appears. Any positive impression is ruined as soon as she opens her mouth. Pity, Draco almost thought he might enjoy it here after all. 

“Well look who decided to show their faces again. I thought you were dead, you can’t just disappear like that! What am I supposed to think, hm? Ever thought of that?” And then he is being hugged, shell shocked and utterly confused at the sheer inappropriateness of her words. Harry is unruffled, returning the hug without any problems and laughing at how overwhelmed Draco surely looks. 

“Sorry Lindsey, next time we will let you know. We just needed a holiday, you know? I hope you can forgive us without spitting in our food first though.” Draco sincerely hopes he is joking. She wouldn’t, would she? The thought alone makes him shudder, he probably won’t be able to eat anything she brings today. 

“But only because you asked so nicely. And I guess you are excused for leaving then, needed some time alone, totally understandable.” She gives them a suggestive wink, making Harry laugh and Draco blush, before leaving them alone. Without taking their order. Well, Draco hopes that means they will get another waitress, someone professional who would never even joke about contaminating their food. 

“So, that is Lindsey, she can be a bit much but she means well. I thought it best not to tell her about your accident, unless you want to share?” Draco just stares at him. It’s considerate of him, not to tell impertinent strangers about personal tragedies, but Draco is too unnerved by the possible violation of hygiene basics to appreciate that at the moment. 

“She is not going to actually spit in our food, is she? Because I will see her fired if she does.” As usual Harry just waves Draco’s concerns away, laughing as if they were silly and small, easily ignored and not worth attention. 

“Of course she isn’t, do you honestly think I would have taken you somewhere they spit in your food?” 

“I had to make sure, this is important. We trust these people a great deal, do you even realise that? And honestly, I’m not convinced she can be trusted with our food. Does one always have to suffer through such an ordeal before being allowed to order here? Which we still haven’t done yet, if I may say so, or are you just going to laugh at me again?” That shuts him up. Draco should be satisfied, should be triumphant and reassured such behaviour won’t happen again. Instead he feels guilty. It doesn’t make sense, he didn’t do anything wrong. His tone might have been a little harsh, but he had honest concerns and Harry didn’t take him seriously, what was he supposed to do? 

But now he has hurt him, which was the last thing Draco had wanted. Harry isn’t supposed to look like this; dejected and crestfallen, as if someone snatched away his sole source of happiness. If Draco could, he would take back what he said, would phrase his concerns differently - but he can’t. So he doesn’t try, doesn’t add fumbling modifications to his words to take the sting out of them. It would be useless anyway. 

When Harry finally answers there is an unexpected hint of steel in his tone, a hard glint in his eyes. 

“I can assure you no one here is going to touch your food. These are good people and even if you might not like them I won’t accept you denouncing them like this. I just wanted to have a nice evening out and we can go somewhere else if you feel uncomfortable here, but in that case you need to say so directly, not accuse someone based on a joke you didn’t like.” 

They sit there, staring at each other, no one willing to back down first. Draco knows he overreacted, had been prepared to move on and enjoy the evening after assuring he wouldn’t get spit with his meal. But Harry’s complete disregard of his fears and sole focus on his unfortunate choice of words, paired with that challenging look, daring him to say another word about it, makes Draco want to take this further, have an actual fight instead of this silent stare-down. 

Suddenly Harry slumps, all fight seemingly leaving him. Draco is grateful, feeling the tension leave him as well. 

“Look, I’m sorry for the way I said it, but not the fact that I did. I honestly think you are making too big a deal out of this. But I also didn’t want to make you feel like your concerns are something to laugh at, though I can assure you they are unfounded and unnecessary. Can’t we put this aside and have a nice dinner? Things were going so well before this, I don’t want to ruin the entire evening.” He looks up at him, tired and still hopeful, placing all his trust in Draco’s willingness to forgive and forget. Draco should do the same, should apologise and allow them to enjoy their evening. Harry is right, Draco genuinely had fun before they were suddenly accusing each other, had liked being here with Harry despite complaining about and criticising next to everything. He wanted to go back to that feeling, and Harry has given him an opening. Now all Draco has to do is accept it, so he apologises in the only way he can. 

“I don’t want that either. I had a good time, I look forward to trying the food here, after your promises to its edibility. I just felt you didn’t take my concerns seriously and needed to make this clear, buy I might not have chosen the best way to do so. I propose we forget this argument and focus on enjoying ourselves again, okay?” Harry is smiling at him, less bright than usual but a smile nonetheless. It warms Draco and he smiles back without even thinking about it. 

“Very much okay, yes.” 

* * *

Draco looks horrified. It’s not obvious, he is too well mannered and proper to show such an honest reaction to a gift from a dear friend. Even if said dear friend gave him a terrible gift on purpose. But Pansy knows Draco too well to be fooled by the polite mask. He scrunches his nose, holds the socks further away and has an almost imperceptible sneer on his face - he is not liking this one bit. Excellent. 

Keeping her own face stoic proves more difficult than Pansy expected, but this is too hilarious to ruin by revealing the plan. If Draco figures out he is not, in fact, holding a gift she poured her heart and soul in, he will never wear them. And what is the sense in putting thought into creating something atrocious when no one is going to wear it? Where is the revenge she longs for? No, giving away the evil workings of her plan is unacceptable, Draco deserves to be trapped and honour-bound to make a fool of himself. Seems he needs a little nudge, though. 

“Don’t you like them? I would understand, I’m not particularly good yet but I tried my hardest. I thought they might help with your perpetually cold feet.” It’s a lie, Pansy is an exceptional knitter, but it’s also easy to believe from what she gave him. The colours are too many and don’t match at all, three different patterns, blocking and overlapping each other, the technique worse than when she first started years ago - she really outdid herself with that one. Not even Luna had found something positive to say, mentioning her concern for the _combative spirits Pansy forced together_. She did compliment the glitter though. To complete the image of the insecure and demure friend, Pansy lowers her eyes and fidgets a little, making him uncomfortable and feel guilty for his reasonable reaction. 

“No, no of course I like it! The colours are lovely, thank you so much Pansy. It is a thoughtful gift and I will treasure it.” Oh, this is too perfect. But Pansy can’t help it, she needs to find out how far she can push him. A little further at least. 

“You don’t have to lie to spare my feelings, just give them back so we can pretend this humiliating scene never happened.” She makes to grab for the socks, halfhearted and expecting Draco to clutch them closer in response. He does not disappoint. 

“No, I swear to you! They are beautiful, marvellous, spectacular - I will wear them right now if it’ll make you believe me.” 

“You would? That would please me very much indeed.” Pansy can’t hide her smirk anymore, but Draco doesn’t notice, too focused on trying to understand how she got him to make such a promise. He will realise it soon enough, when it’s too late and he already committed to it. She doesn’t know why he even bothers protesting anything she says - he’s easy enough to manipulate for her and Pansy always gets what she wants. 

She watches gleefully as he pulls them on, grimacing and mumbling curses. It doesn’t look half bad - simply a splash of colour one might say. Draco does not appreciate her saying that, though, not all. 

* * *

Being fashionably late has many advantages. First is of course the attention you get when you enter the room. Everyone has the chance to admire your outfit and hair and smile and welcome you - that alone would do it for Pansy. More on the practical side is that the awkward state of starting the party is over, the atmosphere has begun to build but is not yet settled. Optimal opportunity to influence and align wherever you please. Of course, Pansy could always do that, but why choose the hard way when the easy way is more fun and gets more admiring looks? 

If Narcissa’s effusive greeting isn’t enough to give the mood away, Lucius glaring at a defiant Potter and a squirming Draco would have done the trick. Once having greeted everyone, Draco is as desperately grateful for her presence as his mother had been, Lucius is polite as always and finding Potter well mannered, Pansy seats herself next to Draco. If this evening was going even remotely how she expects it to go, he will need her moral support. 

Blaise, of course, is not here yet. Typical, he invited himself along to a dinner and shows up late. Not fashionably late - he never got the hang of that- but truly late. Then he would smile that charming smile of his, brandish some beautiful flowers and an expensive bottle of wine, make some inappropriate compliments, and everyone would forgive him on the spot. 

“Pansy darling, I believe you haven’t met Mr. Potter yet?” They are going to talk about it are they? Pansy almost thought everyone would pretend there is nothing new about this situation, that Potter is nothing more than a passing addition to the table, never seen again after today. But it seems Narcissa and Lucius learnt something from Draco leaving and are willing to compromise and accept that Draco had changed, that he would not be docile and go along with whatever they wanted. That is progress, at least. Pansy isn’t sure _Draco_ has gotten the news yet, but she could work on that. 

“No I have not, but Draco told me some admirable things about him. You manage an orphanage, Mr. Potter?” Judging someone’s character by the work they do is easy and fast, most people don’t even think about it, but it can lead to completely wrong results. Social work seems to say they are a good person, kind, empathetic, but Pansy had met enough utter bastards who take pride in _selflessly helping those poorer than themselves_. She needs to make sure Potter isn’t the kind to do good only when someone is watching, when there is a reward for doing it. He doesn’t seem to be, and Draco should be perceptive enough to not fall for someone like that, but as his best friend this is still Pansy’s responsibility. 

“Please, call me Harry. And I do yes,-” Potter proceeds to tell her all about the wonderful kids that live there, his voice confident, fond, and distinctly proud. He definitely isn’t doing it for the image, but because he cares. Pansy tunes him out quickly, not interested in the day-to-day life of children she has no connection to whatsoever. They are under Potters’ care and he takes his job seriously, probably considers it a calling more than a way of earning money - that is all she needs to know. 

While Potter rambles on, Lucius and Narcissa have a silent conversation. Pansy loves watching them during those. Their facial expressions change almost imperceptibly - slightly lifted eyebrows, quirks to their lips and subtle head-tilts. She’s never understood a word they were saying, they are most likely talking in code, too, not satisfied with using _common_ expressions. 

Giving up on understanding the details of what they think about Potter and his compassion, Pansy turns to watch her best friend. Draco is smiling fondly, clearly not listening either but nevertheless turned towards him, not ignoring him the way Pansy is. He sits closer than would be proper too, leaning over the table and seemingly unaware of it. Pansy smiles at the sight. Her moron of a friend might not have realised it yet, but there is a very good reason he married Harry Potter. 

“I’m here, I’m here, ready to save the day. ”

Blaise is striding through the door, interrupting Potter in his speech, startling Draco out of his reverie and causing Lucius to show real delight for the first time this evening. He passes by Narcissa’s chair, pressing a kiss to her cheek from where he stands behind her, shaking Lucius’s and Potter’s hand before kissing Draco and herself. He sits down next to Potter, seemingly ignorant of the glare he is receiving for kissing Draco. This should be interesting.

“You look lovely this evening, Draco. These dinners weren’t the same without you.” With the way they are seated, Blaise has the optimal view to watch Draco blush at the compliment. And he does, gazing at him pensively. 

They used to do that all the time, they were disgustingly sweet together. Blaise was an incorrigible charmer, writing poems for Draco, buying him expensive presents, taking him on romantic dates. Draco would of course pretend not to care about any of that, to merely tolerate him instead of soaking up all his admiration and love, only telling Pansy in hushed tones about the latest thing his perfect boyfriend did for him. Everyone was so sure they would be together forever, that what they had must be true love. 

It was a shock for Pansy to learn about Blaise’s cheating. He claims it was a drunken mistake, a one-time-thing, the worst mistake he ever made. Pansy believes him. Blaise truly loved Draco, still does if what she is seeing now is any indication, and Draco leaving broke something in him. She is not saying Blaise deserves forgiveness with no questions asked and no feelings hurt - but they could have worked it out, could have recovered. Instead Draco left. 

Pansy used to hate Draco for leaving like he did, for opting to flee instead of fighting. Knowing what she does now, it might have been the best thing that could have happened to him. Five years are a long time, and Draco used them well. Not that she didn’t love Draco before, but sometimes she thought he held himself back, forced himself to be exactly who everyone expected him to be - the ideal son, fiancé or friend. What she saw in his house and what he told her of his life, as far as he can piece it together, tells a different story - a story of someone who doesn’t live his life to please others. 

“I am Harry, how do you know _my husband_?” The dangerous glint in Potter’ eyes say that he is perfectly aware of who Blaise is, of who he was to Draco. Blaise sneers at him. 

“Blaise Zabini, pleased to meet you”-he is clearly not-”I’m sure Draco mentioned me, not that I can say the same about _you_” 

“Yes, I know _exactly_ who you are.” So not only a good Samaritan but has some teeth, too. Pansy approves. Draco has no use for a pushover. But Potter made Blaise back off, which is quite the impressive feat. And he did it elegantly, too, he could just have blurted out what he knows about the cheating, could have taken this opportunity to tell Draco himself and turned everyone at this table against him with just a few chosen truths. But Potter didn’t, instead he warned him, and met Blaise’s dismissive attitude with his own dislike. 

“That’s more than enough posturing for today, I think. At least _try_ to get along, for me?” Draco looks pleadingly between his two men, not understanding the relevance and thinking their animosity is nothing more than rivalry. He is probably right - basically it is, he is just missing some key information. But Blaise promised he’d tell him, said that he doesn’t want to build their life on a lie and wants to be honest, so it’s not for either Pansy nor Potter to tell him. 

“Of course, my love, anything for you.” Blaise is laying it on extra thick, probably to rile up Harry though he sure seems to appreciate Draco’s blushing, laughing at his furious whispers to shut up. Potter gives him a disdainful look. He doesn’t say anything, but Blaise suddenly emits a pained sound, glaring at Potter how smiles innocently. Pansy is starting to really like this guy. 

She would have expected her friend to scowl at Potter for hurting Blaise against the specifically requested cease-fire. Instead he laughs, ignoring the indignant expression on Blaise’s face and getting a pleased smile back from Potter. They look good together, happy. 

“Blaise, how is the Henderson case going?” Lucius doesn’t even try to hide his smirk at breaking the fragile moment between them. Draco groans, Harry frowns, and Blaise sits up straighter and starts going on about the boring legal case he is involved in. 

They always do this - talking about their work while everyone else sits bored and nods politely. Lucius is a senior partner at the law firm Blaise is employed at. It’s a highly respected firm, and he takes great pride in being an important figure at it. He got Blaise in, now checking up on him and making the path to promotion for him significantly easier. Having the right connections is important if you want to make it there, and Blaise is ambitious. 

Where Lucius had sneered at Potter’s impassioned talk about the children under his care, he approves of Blaise’s clean presentation of legal facts. No surprises there. 

“Pansy, darling, how are the plans for your next event going?” Narcissa has much experience in changing the subject from her husband’s interrogations, so that her inquiry seamlessly fits in with Lucius and Blaise’s discussion. 

“It would go decidedly better if I weren’t the only one competent working there. Honestly, everyone seems determined to see this event fail. All I do anymore is calling after people to verify the plans and make sure they are still on board, though I am almost through with the important ones and can task Jane with the rest of them. But it’s an ongoing process.” Pansy dreads even thinking about it, the whole thing is a complete mess. Poor Jane, her assistant will more than have her hands full with this. But then, nobody said this was an easy job, and the girl did ask her for more responsibility. 

“What exactly is it you do?” Potter seems genuinely interested, which Pansy hadn’t expected. She didn’t think him the type to care for fancy events or the organisational process behind them. But maybe he is asking because she is Draco’s friend and he wants to make an effort for him. That fits better with what she’s learnt so far about the man, and she decides to keep her answer short and not reward a thoughtful gesture by torturing him with boredom. 

“Oh I dabble a little in charity events. Anything bigger around here was probably organised by me, except if it was tedious, then it was Davis. The insipid girl has no taste of decorum or who to invite but lacks the wisdom to realise this or listen when its kindly pointed out.” 

“I’d say you do more then _dabble_, why so humble? She is the best, if you haven’t been to one of her events yet you absolutely missed out. They are always topic number one weeks before and after they happen, everyone who is anyone is there. Honestly, I don’t know why Davis is still trying to do better than her, she will never even manage anything passable, let alone as stellar as my dear Pansy. Though she is still nervous before every single event, taking hours to choose something to wear - as if she doesn’t look stunning in every piece she owns.” That Draco’s missing five years is always subtly present, but is now glaringly obvious. 

Otherwise he would know Davis actually _did_ organise a halfway decent event and had not taken kindly to Pansy’s strong suggestion to stop now, as this was the best she would ever do. He would know that she, based on her grand success at those events, was asked to regularly write articles about social topics she cares about in the local newspaper. He would know that Pansy now has an assistant, is no longer unbearably nervous before attending her own events, and knows exactly how to dress. 

She could correct him, inform him in a snide tone of what he missed, blame him again for leaving. But she doesn’t. Having him back now is too precious to lose over something discussed and decidedly dealt with. It’s heartwarming how proud he is of her work, how clearly he loves her and how he brags about being friends with her. He is still being completely ridiculous of course, so she steps on his foot to get him to stop talking already. 

He throws her an adorable pout, not repentant in the slightest. God how much she missed him. 

Potter laughs at their antics, pulling Draco’s attention back to himself and tells them how he hates fund-raisers and basically anything Pansy organises. Pansy glares at him, but it’s more for show than anything else. This isn’t about her, it doesn’t matter what Potter thinks of her vocation, as long as he makes Draco happy. 

She leans back in her chair, content to watch Draco chide him on how that is entirely his fault, because there is simply nothing more delightful than a fancy party. Potter smiles an indulgent little smile while fondly listening to Draco giving reason over reason. Yes, Harry Potter could be good for her friend, and she would make sure the moron doesn’t ruin it.


	6. Chapter 6

“And you are sure you don’t want to come with me?” Harry has to try, even though he knows Draco won’t change his mind. He doesn’t want to and that is that. He could be just as stubborn as Harry when he wanted to be. 

“Yes, for the last time, I am certain I don’t want to go with you, visiting children I don’t care about at all. Children are the worst; they are screaming, annoying, snotty little pests and I would like to stay as far away as possible. As unbelievable as it might sound, I would rather spend the day with people _my own age_, having _intelligent_ conversations and actually _enjoying myself_.” Hearing Draco snarl all this at him, Harry can feel his own temper rising. He does not take well to his charges being insulted or spoken of in such a repulsed tone. Especially not when its Draco doing the talking. 

Against what Draco might think, he _does know_ the children, loves every single one of them - and they love him too, miss him terribly. He used to do ‘art courses’ with them. Well, he _called_ it ‘art course’, but it ordinarily ended with more paint on them and the walls than on the papers. But they were always brightly smiling, and disappointed when Harry had to tell them d to clean up. Draco would bake with them, read to them, compliment their dreadful musical skills and take care of inevitable injuries. He was just as involved in their lives as Harry himself. 

Now he is arrogant, dismissive, and hurting Harry without even acknowledging it. 

But screaming at him wouldn’t accomplish nothing. Harry needs to keep his temper, can’t allow himself to start a fight now. He is already late, for one, and fighting would only make things worse. They could discuss this calmly, like the mature adults they are supposed to be. They’ve had their fair share of arguments and Harry is confident in his ability to navigate another one. 

“Okay, you don’t want to come, message received. What do you plan on doing instead?” Harry intends for it to be an olive branch, an offering of peace so they don’t part on quite so bad terms. It is not received as such. 

“Not that it is _any of your business_, but Blaise is taking me to the new art exhibition. I heard wonderful things about it and Blaise was _thoughtful_ and _attentive_ enough to ask me to accompany him. It will be most lovely, I am sure. I would ask you to come along too, but I doubt you would appreciate it and Blaise doesn’t like you. But you are busy with your little monsters anyway, so it all works out perfectly.” Draco’s smile holds no kindness at all, only contempt. 

Harry would love to inform him right now that actually, he loves art exhibitions, that his _precious_ _Blaise_ is a cheating wanker, that Draco himself is a cruel bastard and that he should just leave. He doesn’t. Instead he turns around and leaves before he _does _say any of that. 

* * *

“So then Draco called me, immediately after Potter left, upset and on the verge of crying, because he managed to hurt him _again_. They had a terrible argument, about some children Harry wanted him to visit and Draco, prideful moron that he is, declined the offer, getting increasingly ugly in his remarks. He regretted them as soon as he said them, but you know Draco, there is no way he would admit to that. Especially since he doesn’t regret _what_ he said, but how he hurt Potter by it. Though apparently Potter didn’t say anything, just left after Draco scared him off. 

“I had to listen to an hour of Draco complaining about _Perfect Potter_, how he always appears so great and so patient but actually is a pushy prat who doesn’t accept who Draco is. I get it, this isn’t easy for either of them, but taking his frustration out on Potter won’t go well for long. 

“He says he likes Harry, doesn’t want to lose him but doesn’t know how he fits in his life either. Because he wants to marry Blaise, not Potter. Because he _loves_ Blaise, because his parents approve of Blaise and that is the life he always wanted, or was told to want at least. Not that he figured out yet that this is what is going on. Draco is just confused, overwhelmed, sulking - he wants things to be easy again. 

“Speaking of Blaise - he still hasn’t told him. He says he tried to, several times, but then Draco would smile at him or interrupt him or something else would happen to break the moment. And I believe him. It’s obvious this is eating at him, that he feels guilty for not telling him. But I’m also quickly losing patience, Draco deserves to know!” Looking up from her knitting for the first time since she started her spontaneous rant, she is met only with quiet - no one offering advice or telling her all the men in her life are useless. Pansy frowns. 

“What, no one has anything to say?” This at least gets a reaction - primarily surprised staring, but that is better than nothing. It’s Margret who answers her. 

“You usually don’t appreciate our advise, my flower. We thought you would ask if you wanted some answers. Though I was under the impression you just needed to get this off your chest and are already set on what you want to do.” She is right. Pansy doesn’t want anybody else to tell her how to deal with her emotionally stunted friends. Well, that is not quite true - she would love Luna’s view on this. It seems everyone in this circle knows her too well, because all it takes for Luna to give her what she wants is a questioning look. 

“I’m sure a sophisticated woman such as yourself is familiar with the Japanese art _kentsugi._ They repair broken pottery with lacquer mixed with powdered gold, silver, or platinum. It creates stunning and unique pieces - more beautiful for having broken. Some things need to break, Pansy, to create art.” This is more forward than her advise usually is, but Pansy is grateful, she has no time to figure out cryptic remarks. It is helpful, too, encouraging, reassuring. 

“Thank you, Luna.” Luna smiles at her, that soft smile she only ever gives Pansy. It would be okay, she is sure of it now. 

* * *

Harry bursts through the door, ignoring the startled looks, and scans the pub for Ron. He spots him in a somewhat secluded corner, two pints on the table and looking somber. That is good - privacy is not high on Harry’s list of requirements at the moment but appreciated nonetheless. His list doesn’t include much anyway - actually just Ron. He stomps over to where his best friend is waiting, warily watching his approach. Hermione had told him this would happen, that bottling up his frustrations would lead nowhere good, and Harry had known she was right but did it regardless. So now here he is, fuming, raging, and more than tempted to tear this whole building down around him. 

Then he is in front of Ron, who doesn’t speak to him, only pushes one of the pints closer. Harry appreciates the silence - he needs to figure out where to start. Shifting in the chair, he takes a deep swallow of his pint, trying to calm his anger enough to speak. Ron waits patiently. 

“He drives me mad Ron, completely crazy. And I can’t even say anything about it! Because then we will fight and he will leave and I will be alone and Ron, I don’t want him to leave! I want him _back_, to _stay_, is that too much to ask? For my husband back? My loving, sarcastic, whimsical husband, who creates beautiful paintings and reads to little children, who doesn’t snap when something doesn’t meet his exacting standards, who can’t sing at all and does it anyway, who calls me a prick and a moron and who snuggles up to me after a long day. Is that too much to ask?” Tears sting in his eyes and he clenches his hands, unwilling to cry here, over something stupid like that. When had his anger turned to desperation? 

“But what do I get?” The rage is back, coursing through him and only spurring on the tears. He wipes them away, uncaring. “A stuck-up prick who sneers at the mere thought of children, who never does any of the house keeping - he told me to hire a cleaner, Ron, a _cleaner - _who spends his days flirting with his cheating ex and feeling as though he’s better than everyone else. 

“It’s like he isn’t even _trying_, like he doesn’t even _want_ things to go back to normal. Like he doesn’t want _me_. He sure is interested in _Blaise_. And I don’t get it - I can treat him better than that wanker, can make him happy and give him a real life, not some social-facade-everything-is-just-perfect-life. But he won’t even give me chance! How am I supposed to get him back when all he wants is to do stupid things with his friends and have tedious dinners with his stuck-up parents’?” As suddenly as the rage had come over him, it leaves him again. He slumps down, buries his head in his hands, the overwhelming feeling of defeat filling the empty space his rage left. 

“Sometimes I wish he had never reconnected with them, that they had stayed away like they did the last five years and left him alone. Does that make me a horrible person, Ron? It does, doesn’t it?” He pauses, thinking back on all those times when he wished his husband wouldn’t still pretend the loss of his family didn’t bother him. Because it had hurt him, even when he didn’t want it to. And now that he does have them back, Harry can’t get over himself long enough to be happy for him. 

“You should have seen how happy he was when he told me he met Pansy - how can I wish she would have rejected him? I _don’t_, not really, except sometimes, when he moons over Blaise and smiles at Pansy - that way he doesn’t smile at me anymore - sometimes I do.” Harry doesn’t look up, doesn’t want to see his friends disgusted expression at what he just admitted. So instead, he swallows more of his pint and leaps onto something else. 

“He is _in love_ with Blaise. The way his face lights up when he talks about him, how much time he spends with him and him alone - they were engaged you know. They actually loved each other - still do now. And he has the nerve to tell _me_ not to be jealous, to _trust_ him!

“I _hate_ this, all of it. That I _don’t trust _him anymore, what happened? How did this change us so much? Why didn’t it work? I tried so hard, to give him space, let him decide what to do, to learn, to accept his family and friends who hate me based on nothing more than my income. I hate _him_. When he sneers at something, when he dismisses something he once loved, when he ignores me and demands I should pretend everything is fine. But I love him, too. When he is himself again, when he laughs at my jokes and smiles at me, when he gets ecstatic over sweets and when he talks fondly about something Pansy did. When I almost have him back.”

He stops after that, tired and spent, sipping at his pint and waiting for Ron’s judgement. It doesn’t come. Ron doesn’t tell him he’s selfish, a terrible person, deserves this happening to him. For a moment he thinks Ron left, maybe while he was too occupied complaining, but a quick glance up confirms that no, he is still there, watching Harry. 

“Harry this - all the times I asked how things were with Draco and you said it’s fine? It’s not. Look, we both know emotional heart to hearts aren’t exactly my strong suit, and this is a giant mess.” Harry sits up straighter. Ron might think he’s no good when it comes to emotions, but Harry always finds he gives sound advice. He has emotions enough, overwhelming him and confusing everything. But Ron has his scheming face on, the one he wears while playing chess, solving puzzles. He would untangle this mess and tell him what to do. 

“The most important thing to understand here, is that you are not his punching bag. Draco can’t just trample all over you, disregarding your feelings, expecting you to take it without complaining. I understand that this isn’t easy for him, that I probably have no idea what he even goes through, but this is no excuse. Look at you, this is not how you treat people you care about - does he even know he did that? You are worth more, Harry.” He stops here, catching his eyes and searching his face for something. Most likely seeking confirmation that Harry understands what he’s saying, and he does, of course he does. It just seemed how he felt was less important since Draco was the one who had had the accident, was suffering. But then, what he’s going through isn’t exactly fun either, so maybe they are both suffering. He nods at Ron, indicating for him to go on. 

“Great, now that that is clear. I am sure you noticed, but five years are a long time. Draco changed - tremendously so, apparently. He is not the man you knew anymore, stop treating him like he is.” He shoots down Harry’s protests with a single glare. “I am not saying to dump him and move on, calm down. All I am saying is that you should remember this, get to know him again. You will likely find just as many new as familiar things about him. But there _will be _new things, and you need to accept that too.” That sounds reasonable enough, almost like a plan. He should have realised it earlier. He had said Draco isn’t himself anymore, and yet waited for him to return to how he used to be. But Draco is still his husband, you are supposed to know someone when you are married to them. 

“So, what are you saying I should do? Ask him his opinions on religion? If he believes in ghosts and where he would like to travel one day?” Harry snorts. This could easily turn into an interrogation Draco would not appreciate, this much he knows. 

“Sure, whatever you need to know about the person you plan to spend considerable time with. Take him on a date, mate.” Ron is grinning at him, as if they aren’t talking about his husband here but someone he saw at the pub. The atmosphere has shifted to something lighter, almost playful. Harry missed this, missed _Ron_, he had been so busy with Draco, always thinking about what to show him and wondering how he is adjusting - friends weren’t a priority. And yet Ron is here, and didn’t even hesitate before agreeing to meet. 

“Thank you, Ron, you are a good friend.” Ron smiles, might even blush a little, but waves it away with a dismissive gesture. 

“Of course I am, the very best. And because I am the most fantastic friend you could ever have, I’ll let you crash on our couch today and allow you to buy the next round.” Harry laughs. He knew Ron would know how to fix this, though he really could have thought of simply getting drunk with a friend on his own. 

* * *

Draco sits up when the door opens. When he sees Harry stroll through it, happy and unhurt, something in him relaxes in relief. Harry is fine, he was not attacked, did not have a terrible accident or got a devastating mysterious illness. Of course he was fine, all these thoughts are ridiculous and would never happen, much less to Harry. But Draco had worried anyway. 

He hadn’t yet when Harry didn’t come home when he usually would, Draco had assumed he was held up somewhere. When he checked his phone for the explanatory message he was sure to find but didn’t, he was predominantly angry. That was preferable to worry, though equally irrational; Harry doesn’t owe him an explanation about what he is doing. But as it got later with no sign of the git, Draco did start to worry. He started imagining horrific scenes of what could possibly have happened, because even if he isn’t obligated to, Harry would send him a message when he was running late. 

Draco spent most of the night ignoring the increasingly terrible possibilities his brain supplied him with of why Harry hadn’t called, hadn’t come home and desperately trying to reach the man. 

It seems foolish now, in the light of day and with Harry smiling at him. Of course he was fine. 

Fine might be a bit of an exaggeration, now that Draco looks at him in more detail. Yes, Harry is safe and unhurt, smiling even, but the smile is tired, his clothes are rumpled and he leans against the door frame. He is hungover, that’s what this is. He must have spent his night drinking without a concern in the world, leaving Draco to guess and wonder, going frantic with worry. 

“Had a pleasant night?” Anger is slowly but surely building up inside him. At least Harry recognises his tone, the warning to choose his next words wisely. He looks at Draco, assessing his state the way Draco himself just did with Harry, and seemingly comes to a decision when he closes the door behind him and takes a few steps further into the room, closer to Draco. 

“It did, yes, had a few pints with Ron. My head is still killing me though, do we have coffee, food?” Draco just stares at him in disbelief. Does he expect Draco to _cook _for him? To coddle him because poor Harry drank more than he can stomach and now his head hurts? Not happening, not after he kept him up all night for no good reason and without even apologising. Demanding food should be the last thing he does right now. 

“Did it - at any point in your grand outing - occur to you to maybe _inform me_ that you were going to spend the night at a friend’s house?” He is seething now. He was _worried sick_ about the bastard, and here he is, unapologetic and expecting pity. 

“Since when do you even care?” There is a sudden viciousness in his voice, and he is glaring now, resembling nothing of the hungover man from just a moment ago. Draco had never seen him like this, though he had of course noticed that Harry has a temper - hard not to notice that - but he had controlled it every time. Frankly, Draco didn’t think he could do anything to break his undoubtedly hard fought for control. It’s shocking to find out he is capable of it after all. Still, he won’t be talked to that way. If Harry has a problem with him, wants to accuse him of something, he’d better do it directly and be well founded. 

“What, exactly, are you accusing me of, Potter?” It is difficult not to simply attack him, throw accusations of his own at him. But that would lead nowhere, and Draco refuses to sink to that level when there is a more diplomatic way to solve this. But he won’t hesitate to defend himself, diplomacy or not. 

“Oh, I think you know.” Harry is coming closer now, prowling almost, like an animal. It is as clear a threat as Draco ever saw one, but he won’t be cowed by it. He stands up straighter, lifts his chin and sneers down at him. 

“I’d like to hear you say it.” Harry doesn’t stop in his approach, coming too close for comfort by far. Draco clings to his anger, stoking it and letting it burn high. 

“I’m talking about how you ignore my feelings entirely, I’m just something that stands between you and Blaise, nothing more than someone to take your frustrations out on, who won’t fight back, your punching bag. But no more, I won’t let you treat me like that anymore. I deserve better.” He has spoken quietly, but by no means calmly. The same dangerous rage simmers in Draco. Had Draco been less furious, he might have conceded some of these points, might have thought about what Harry had said. But he is furious, everything in him pushing to attack, to hurt and scream. 

All the thinking ability he has is devoted to tactics. Screaming will get him nowhere, will make him look hysteric and irrational, wrong. Harry has stopped moving, standing and observing several inches away from him. Draco doesn’t step forward, instead grasps at his coat and pulls him in, yanks his head down to snarl in his face - meeting the threat head on. 

“_You_ deserve better, _your_ feelings are being ignored? What about _me_, about _my_ feelings? You are constantly telling me what I like and dislike, how to act and what to wear. Tell me, how is treating me like your personal little doll any better?” Draco pushes him away, using all the force he can gather and the element of surprise. Watching him stumble fills him with vindictive glee, for once it’s him losing his standing. He finds it quickly enough, spitting mad, all composure lost to mindless wrath. 

“I was trying to _help_! I want you to get your memory back, so you can be yourself again. Though I never saw you trying, you dismiss everything purely put of principle, because it’s something _I_ came up with! How are you ever going be back to normal again if you don’t open your memories? You have them, use them!” He is keeping his distance now, shouting and making large gestures with his hands. His screaming is still contagious, Draco can feel his own thin control slipping. 

“_This_ is me! Finally accept that! I am _not the man you married_ and I don’t want to be.” He is proud of not shouting, of still sounding calm and menacing. Harry is pacing and clenching his jaw. 

“Yes, I noticed, you are not subtle over wanting to marry Blaise. It’s a wonder you are still here.” This is too far, and Draco would not stand here and be told who he is allowed to love. 

“For once you are absolutely right, I have _no idea_ why I am still here. I never do enough or I do the wrong thing - you complain about _everything_ I do!” He is shouting now, too, rage bursting out of where he tried to cage it, unconcerned and loud. 

“_I_ complain? _You_ never do _anything_! Not the dishes, the grocery shopping, the laundry. You are nothing more than a spoilt-rotten, good-for-nothing brat, totally depended on others. That might have worked with your parents, treating you like a prince, but _I am sick of it_. This is your life now, the life _you chose_, get used to it.”

“I don’t choose it anymore.” The words ring loud in the sudden silence, massive and standing like a wall between them. They both stare at each other, Harry breathing hard from his shouting, Draco lifting his chin in defiance, prepared to defend himself against the backlash. When it comes, it is more gently than he would have expected. 

“What do you what to say, that you are leaving?” Draco doesn’t know what to do with that, with the concern in his voice and the silent question in his eyes. _Are you leaving __me__?_ So he reverts to what he knows, what his father taught him - he sneers. 

“Yes, I am leaving, for people who will appreciate me.” It comes shockingly easy to him, to put on a mask and pretend. 

“Fine then, go! You are good at that.” Draco keeps his face stoic, doesn’t react in any way as he walks past him, no direction in mind, just _away_. 


	7. Chapter 7

Pansy should be less surprised to open the door and find her soaked and miserable best friend than she is. Soaked, miserable, and also murderous, so she steps aside and lets him enter without teasing him for looking like a wet ferret. He truly looks terrible, hair wet and hanging in his face, shoulders slumped and feet dragging. Were it not for the dangerous glint in his eyes she would cuddle him under blankets and pet his hair until he feels better. But he isn’t in the mood to be cuddled, so she throws him a towel and goes straight for the ice-cream, for the comfort food Draco only indulged in when truly in need of it, and without his father knowing. That would help in any case, even if Draco wants to plot a murder.

She finds Draco where she left him, getting comfortable on her couch, hair now wild from roughly towelling it. He looks adorable, like a disgruntled kitten. Pansy sits down next to him, handing him the ice-cream and, at his delighted noise, dares to also pull the blanket over them. He glares at her but doesn’t push it away. Pansy doesn’t say anything, just eats her own dessert.

The thing with Draco is, that he won’t talk about the important things if he doesn’t want to, you can’t force or coerce him. She could distract him with idle chitchat, talk about the neighbours cat and bore him into acquiescence, but she found that letting him start the conversation worked far better. There were also those occasions when Draco didn’t start talking at all. That was fine too, they would just sit close and eat their ice-cream in silence. This time, it doesn’t take long for Draco to talk.

“He brought me ice-cream too, you know. Vanilla. I wondered how he could possibly know. We fought, Pans, it was bad. I think I said some terrible things to him.” He looks dejected, utterly helpless, as he eats spoon after spoon and presses closer to Pansy. She presses back, showing she is there and listening and accepting.

“What you did you fight about?” Draco tends to forget she can’t read his mind, doesn’t know what happened if he doesn’t tell her. Sometimes he needs encouragement to go on, a gentle reminder.

“It started over nothing really, a simple mistake, easily forgiven. But I was so angry, and _tired_, I was up all night, worried sick, picturing the most horrifying scenes - you want to know what he did? He was _drinking_! That’s it. And when I _dared to mention_ that the _considerate_ thing to do would have been to send a message, he started ripping me apart. How I don’t care about him or his feelings, how I am useless and spoilt and selfish and _wrong_. That I am not his husband and better take all measures to become him.” Draco is irritated now, making wild gestures and almost falling off the couch. Pansy lets him, using his gestures more than his tone to judge how upset he is. The bigger and less controlled the movements, the worse it is. This is almost catastrophic, Potter hurt him deeply.

“He never appreciates _me_, always criticises how I’m not _him_, how I am doing things wrong and should like what he expects me to like. I feel like I’m just a placeholder, like he’s waiting for me to finally leave and the _real _Draco to come back.” He is quiet, the words coming out sharp and gutted and he is back under the blanket, pressed close to her once again.

If Pansy is being honest, she expected something like this would happen. It was stupid to believe throwing them together would go over smoothly. Draco didn’t really want to be there, because he didn’t know Potter and environment was strange to him. Potter must have underestimated the change in him and how taxing it would be, to almost but not quite have who he loves. Forcing them to live together this closely, constantly confronted with each other - it was a recipe for disaster.

Draco now needs space most of all. Some distance to reevaluate, to figure out what he wants. He has been pushed far enough, too soon too far maybe, sending him back to Potter’s home would accomplish nothing.

“Draco love, would you like to stay here for a while?” Draco looks up at her, grateful, eyes filled with tears he refuses to shed.

“Yes, thank you Pansy.” He pulls away slightly, picking up his bowl again and looking better already, now that he knows he doesn’t have to go back if he doesn’t want to.

Not that Pansy intends to let him simply move on and pretend this never happened. Whatever he did after he run away, it had been good for him. She has the strong suspicion he finally came into his own, outside of being the dutiful son and loving fiancé, and it had changed him drastically. Not in the ways that matter, at his core he must still have been the same, but significantly nonetheless. And while this progress might have nothing to do with Potter, he is all the connection Pansy has to discovering more. Under no circumstances would she allow Draco to forget that.

Technically she would attempt the same Potter did - bring Draco’s memories of who he was back. But Pansy knows him, knows when to push and when to leave it, when what Draco needs is some coaxing or if he needs a reminder of his reasons to try. Potter apparently doesn’t, not with this Draco, at least. No matter, he would learn, and until he does, Pansy will take care of her best friend.

* * *

Harry barely slept all night. He keeps replaying their argument, hearing Draco say that he doesn’t want this, _doesn’t want him_, anymore. Keeps seeing him leave. He thought he would feel better, that all they needed was to get it out there and then calmly discuss how to proceed. But instead Draco is gone and Harry is alone, left to go over every single agonising detail and think about how they should have handled this differently.

He thought on Draco’s accusation, that he treated him like a mere placeholder until his husband returned to him. It was a shock to hear, like a punch in the gut, that he would ever treat someone like that. The worst thing is that he can’t be sure he didn’t treat Draco like he claimed. He wants him back _so badly -_ his life feels empty without him, missing a vital part that made the world wonderful and bright. After the accident things were changed, familiar and comfortable habits became work and the person he relied the most on didn’t seem to care about his interests. Could anyone blame him for doing everything he could to bring his life back to normal? It sounds like the excuses of someone guilty to his own ears.

He had contemplated calling Ron, telling him that his stupid advice ruined everything, shift the blame. But even at his most angry he knew this wasn’t Ron’s fault. No, they messed this up all by themselves.

He paced through the house, like a caged animal, unwilling to leave in case Draco came back and unable to sit still. But Draco didn’t return, and Harry kept pacing.

He whirls around as the door finally opens, revealing Draco and Pansy. He looks stone cold, tall and regal, face closed off and not betraying any emotion. Harry had never seen him like this, not at the hospital when he didn’t recognise him, not yesterday when he left without sparing him a single glance. It hurts, more than his accusations had, more than Harry thought possible.

Still, his heart leaps in his chest and hope surges up in him - Draco came back.

“Draco, I am glad you came back. Can we please talk rationally about this?” Draco ignores him, completely, doesn’t look at him, doesn’t answer him, walks right past him into the house and starts gathering things in his arms. Harry can only stare, not wanting to admit what he knows is happening.

“I’m afraid he won’t talk to you, Potter. He is resolved to cut you out of his life once and for all.” Pansy is speaking in hushed tones, probably not wanting Draco to hear her.

“Don’t worry, you know how dramatic he can be. I have it all under control, but I think it’s best for both of you that he comes to live with me for a while. Give him some time to calm down, take some time for yourself to calm down, and call me.” She presses a piece of paper into his hand, and leans even closer.

“We should definitely meet up though, even if you are still angry at him. I need to know more. Surely you can understand - he is my best friend, then he left and now he is hurting and I don’t know enough to help him.” Without waiting for a response, she places a quick kiss on his cheek and dives after Draco into the house.

Finally able to move again, as if a spell was lifted from him once Pansy stopped talking, Harry hurries after her, intent on ignoring everything she just said and compelling Draco to stay.

“Draco, please listen to me. We both said some valid things and some we regret but we can _talk about this_. You don’t have to leave like that. Come on Draco, please? Nothing worth having is ever easy, and since when are you not prepared to fight? Draco, say something!” Draco doesn’t talk to him. Not to tell him to shut up or to move out of the way and least of all in response to what he’s saying. It’s maddening, frustrating, painful. How Draco can be this unaffected and simultaneously affect Harry himself so much. He goes around, picking things up left and right, Harry trailing after him and Pansy looking at them both with pity.

Harry doesn’t give up, keeps throwing the same things at Draco - how they can talk if he would just answer him please, that he should stay, how they can work this out - only to be ignored. Even a condescending sneer would be better than this, _any_ reaction really.

But he still hasn’t gotten one when Pansy stops him from following Draco out the door. “Seriously Potter, that’s _enough_. You are not helping anyone by running after him like a kicked puppy. Do as I said, take some time and _call_ _me_.”

She pushes him back into the house and shuts the door in his face.

* * *

Blaise’s hands are warm and gentle on his arms, his only guide as his vision is completely taken by the blindfold. It’s strange, Draco should feel unsure and lost without his ability to see, but he can feel Blaise close behind him, guiding him over the uneven ground and making sure he doesn’t fall.

He had shown up at Pansy’s flat out of the blue, asking Draco if he would go on a date with him. He had agreed despite Pansy’s insistence that he should decline and spend the evening reading, like he had planned, to keep _thinking_ and _evaluating_ what happened and how he feels about it. But Draco doesn’t want to. He _did_ that, has done barely anything else for days, he wants to do something else now. So, he had smiled and accepted when Blaise held up the blindfold, telling him it was a surprise and he couldn’t risk Draco figuring it out too quickly.

They hadn’t been in the car for long, Blaise entertaining him by singing along to the radio, horribly off key, Draco pretending to hate it and demanding he stop. The blindfold had fulfilled its purpose - Draco has no idea where they are. With anyone else he would worry about being murdered any second now, but he trusts Blaise implicitly, and unlike Pansy, Blaise would never hurt him. Pansy totally _would_ murder him in some dark woods, bury his body where it never would be found. Draco is reasonably sure that is how he is going to die one day - by testing her limits too far and she would finally make good on that threat.

“Can I open my eyes now?” Draco is only half teasing, because as pleasant as this little adventure is, he didn’t plan on spending his entire evening stumbling through the dark. Blaise makes a tutting noise, amused by his eagerness.

“Remember Draco, patience is a virtue.” He is about to tell him how he isn’t willing to indulge this nonsense any longer - a lie, obviously - when Blaise stops him, pulling Draco even closer, so that he leans against his chest, feeling his steady breath and his heart beating.

The words die on Draco’s tongue, feeling too loud for the sudden dreamlike tranquillity. They stand like that for a moment, silent and hyper aware of where they are touching.

Draco is still soaking up the warmth when Blaise moves, lifting the blindfold and revealing a more beautiful sight than Draco could have envisioned. There, in the slight mist of the evening, covered in fairy-lights of every colour imaginable, lays their houseboat.

He remembers in detail what torture it was to find one that satisfied Draco’s exacting wishes and requirements. He hadn’t wanted anything over stylised and modern, nothing plain, and nothing tiny. He had wanted a cosy little house, spacious without being grand, something to _live _in. Blaise hadn’t understood, had presented one after another, merely raising an eyebrow at Draco’s vague reasoning for his rejections. But he hadn’t given up, and finally he had surprised Draco with this little gem.

It has two floors, the first floor serving as main living space and the second used half as an additional room, the other half as a sort of balcony. The plants and flowers they had set everywhere are still growing strong, the paint is new, the light is burning - it exudes _home_ like nothing else had since he woke up to his whole world having changed. Blaise must have taken care of it, even after Draco left. The realisation is overwhelming.

“What do you think, do you like it?” Draco can’t answer, can’t form words, so he turns around, hugs Blaise close and whispers his thanks. Blaise laughs and it is like the day he first gifted this marvel of a house to Draco. He spent that day being dragged around by an overexcited Draco, breaking out in ecstasy over little details, no getting a word in edgewise. The evening was spent on the balcony, back then empty without the flowers adorning it now, Draco talking about everywhere he wanted to travel with Blaise and their new houseboat, Blaise promising to show him the whole world should he wish so.

It had quickly become one of Draco’s favourite places, alone or with Blaise - he always felt more like he belonged here than he did at the manor. He hadn’t realised how much he missed it.

Overcome with pure, light happiness, he laughs, squirming out of Blaise’s embrace and pulling him after him, intent on exploring it all over again. Before he has the chance to dive into the main living space, Blaise pulls him to a stop, motioning upwards with a small smile on his face. With a longing glance into the kitchen, Draco leads the way upstairs.

He doesn’t know what he expected, but he shouldn’t have been surprised - Blaise had always been fond of making grand romantic gestures. Finding a picnic basket amongst candles and blankets is not an uncommon surprise, and yet warms his heart every time.

They used to do that often, would shut everyone else out for an evening and retreat into a world of their own. Sadly, they had had to cancel with increasing frequency, because Blaise had to devote more and more time to his studies. Draco never begrudged him his ambition, though they had their fair share of arguments about it. He idly wonders if that is the reason why they ultimately ended their relationship, before deciding not to ruin a lovely evening by dwelling on unpleasant musings.

“This is lovely, Blaise. You didn’t have to, you know?” Blaise merely smiles, pulling him towards the blankets. Draco laughs as he lets himself be pulled down, next to Blaise who slings his arm around his shoulders, hugging him close. He hadn’t realised how much he missed this until he had it back.

They sit for a while, Blaise telling Draco about his work and life, Draco devouring the food Blaise brought. It’s easy, comfortable and familiar.

“What about you. How is your old life treating you? How is Potter?” Draco tenses. The sneer in Blaise’s voice is barely perceptible and he appreciates the effort. It is kind of him to show an interest, to acknowledge the situation. But Draco would like to go on not talking about it, go on pretending, just for a little while.

“Potter is a moron with a temper who doesn’t care about the person I _am_ as much as the person I _was_. I would rather not ruin a delightful evening by talking about him.” The pleasant moment is broken, the illusion shattered.

“That’s fine with me, more than fine.” Blaise drops a reassuring kiss on his head, much like Pansy would but so very different at the same time, and talks about a comment he read on the art exhibition they went to.

There is something odd about his tone, he sounds distracted, almost like he used to when he was planning - halfway into his realisation, Blaise gives him a sudden push, away from him and down from their perch on the balcony. It was a great plan, would have worked flawlessly - if Draco had caught on a little later. As it is now, he pulls Blaise down with him.

They break through the surface together, spluttering and laughing. “That is not quite what I had planned. This shirt was expensive, you know.”

Blaise is grinning, not as put out as he pretends to be. He really has no reason to be, as he caused them to fall in the first place. Now _Draco_ on the other hand, Draco has a very good reason to be annoyed - to enact revenge. So, sadly uncreative, he splashes more water into Blaise’s stunned face. Draco uses his shock to break free, move far enough away that Blaise can’t reach him anymore, lest he should try to retaliate. “You should have thought of that before you decided that _drowning me_ was a good idea.”

“Just you wait, I will show you that this was in fact an excellent idea.” He is predatorily drawing closer, forcing Draco to retreat further to keep distance between them.

Suddenly, he _launches_ at him, causing Draco to let out an undignified squeak and flail wildly, trying to escape. With the dynamics changed by Blaise’s attack, they chase through the water, never quite grasping the other, always just out of reach.

It is exhilarating, racing through the water, the night dark around them, silent except for their own shouts and laughter. Watching Blaise become more determined with every hand of water he catches is sending a thrill down his spine, making him tease and try his best to keep escaping, while also impatient to be caught already.

A firm hand clutches his ankle, Blaise shouts in triumph, and then Draco is pulled close again, all his struggling useless. Before he fully realises it, Blaise holds him close, gripping him tight to prevent him from getting free, smiling down at him. “Seems I have finally caught you.”

Draco stills - he is right. He caught him, won their game, fair and square. He smiles up at him, tilts his head, licks his lips in what could be an unconscious motion. Blaise stares at his mouth, grips him tighter. Good. “You did. Whatever are you going to do with me now?”

Blaise leans down, as if to finally claim his prize and kiss him, when he suddenly backs away. Not far, doesn’t fully release him, but he doesn’t kiss him either. Draco frowns. “I wish it were that easy, wish I could simply kiss you here and now. I can’t Draco, I - I did something stupid and you have to know-”

He doesn’t want to hear it. Doesn’t want to listen to Blaise explain how he can’t kiss him because he’s married. It is sweet of him, honourable and good, but Draco doesn’t care about that. Harry doesn’t want _him_, he wants someone he might never be again, so as far as Draco is concerned, he has no right to ruin his relationship with someone who _does_ want him.

“Fine then, don’t kiss me.”

“Draco come on, don’t be like this. We were having fun, right? We’ll get out of the water and you can reacquaint yourself with the boat, okay?” Draco doesn’t want to be charmed by his attempt to sooth him, doesn’t want to lean into his hand and be tempted to do as he says. But he can’t deny that getting to explore sounds better than walking back through the darkness, alone and soaked, so he agrees reluctantly. Blaise’s blinding smile is worth giving in.


	8. Chapter 8

Pansy didn’t honestly expect Potter to call her. She _hoped _he would, but she thought it more likely that he would barge in and try to pester Draco into coming back. She is glad he didn’t, though she can’t say this awkward silence from him is preferable. He sits in front of her, fiddling with his coffee and unsure of what to say. Maybe she should rescue him, start the conversation, but she did expect better from him, _more_ somehow. 

“Thank you for agreeing to this. Has he calmed down yet?” Potter finally speaks up, looking up from his cup and facing her. This is what she expected, someone willing to actively do things instead of waiting for others to lead him. It’s good to be reassured in her judgement of him. 

She takes a sip of her own coffee, holding his stare and making him wait. He is visibly holding himself back from snapping at her. Draco has been much the same lately. No wonder, the way they messed this up leaves both of them lost and hurt. 

However, where Draco has decided to run away and pretend this whole thing didn’t happen, Potter is ready to fix it. 

“Thank you for reaching out. I have to say, I wasn’t sure you would. From what Draco’s told me, he said some hurtful things to you.” Pansy carefully studies the way his jaw clenches. He is still angry, that’s good. With the way he begged Draco to stay when they went to collect his things she almost feared he would let Draco get away with everything. But apparently he had been prepared to calmly talk about things, like adults. That is a huge relief, she can’t deal with two stubborn morons. 

“We _both_ said some awful things, yes. I would prefer to talk to Draco about this. So if you are not going to answer my questions, I think I will leave again.” Pansy chuckles at that. Draco had told her Potter has a temper, but this was quick. 

“Oh no, stay. I will answer your questions, if I don’t think they are invasive. No, Draco has not calmed down. He is throwing himself into his old life, planning regular dinners with Lucius and Narcissa, meeting Blaise - he is doing a great job pretending you don’t exist.” Potter listens closely, flinching slightly, but seems to have expected to hear as much. 

“You have to understand, I want to help him. This life he was living - it wasn’t good for him, didn’t give him what he needed and didn’t make him happy. I think he built something better for himself and I want him to have it back. Obviously you feature in somewhere in that life, but you are not the cornerstone it is built on. If I don’t think that Draco wants you back in his life, I won’t force that on him and I would recommend you don’t either.” She glares at him, makes sure he understands he _will_ regret it should he disregard this warning. It works - he shrinks back slightly into his chair. Pansy smiles smugly, she so enjoys intimidating people. 

“My priority is his happiness, not your relationship.” Pansy picks up her cup, watches over the rim as Potter processes what she just said. Then he nods. 

“That is fine with me, but know that _my_ goal is to get him back.” Fair enough, at least he is reasonable. 

“Of course, you wouldn’t be here otherwise. I think you might just get him back, if you go about it right.” She smiles at him but he tenses at the words. 

“I know how to _go about it_, I just need to talk to him!” 

“Clearly you don’t, or we wouldn’t be in this mess, would we?” Her tone is sweet but her smile is sharp, she won’t tolerate being yelled at. Potter is frustrated? She can understand that, but it is not her fault and he’d better remember that. 

“I am not saying this is all on you, Draco is a stubborn prat and I am absolutely certain he was less than cooperative. But he likes you, feels a connection to you - now is the time to build on that. And when I say build I really do mean _build. _Go slow, give him space, don’t demand things he can’t give. Court him, essentially.” Potter doesn’t calm down at the words, rather the opposite. He is holding his cup in a tight grip -Pansy idly marvels on how it hasn’t broken yet - and is breathing hard. 

“That’s a great plan, I wish I had thought of that!” That’s enough. Pansy can appreciate sarcasm - as long as the situation is appropriate. Granted, there aren’t many situations a little sarcasm doesn’t help, but she doesn’t like where this is going. 

“Why didn’t you do it, if you knew that was what needed to be done? Why force the two of you together in that house, a catastrophe inevitable?” Pansy didn’t want to do this, didn’t want to criticise him. She knows the situation isn’t that simple, but she is not going to sit here and let him snap at her without snapping back. 

“Yes fine, we didn’t handle things _perfectly_. But _what_ _else_ should I have done? Send him to his parents, where Lucius can tell him how I am beneath even his notice and to divorce me immediately? Where he would have been miserable in a month’s time?” He starts to gesticulate wildly with his free hand, the other still clutching the coffee like it’s the only thing keeping him sane. 

“Yes! You can’t immerse him in a life where he knows nothing and no one, where unknown things are expected of him and where he has nothing to hold on to. But I am not here to discuss the past, what’s done is done. The question is, are you willing to do what’s needed now, or do you plan on sulking like a child?” 

“I am _not_ sulking! I don’t see why _I_ should do all the work, when _he_ won’t even admit he made mistakes! _He _is the one sulking here, running away and hiding with you - as if _that_ accomplishes _anything_!” He is most definitely sulking - and Pansy thought this would be easy, that he would be reasonable. But he is just as stubborn as Draco. 

“Yes, let’s blame it all on Draco, that is really mature and helpful.” She stands up, intending to leave. If Potter is going to be a sarcastic, sulking twat the whole time, she has better things to do. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean - I’m sorry. What do you propose I do?” He reaches for her but stops himself before grabbing her wrist. 

“That’s alright, this is a difficult situation, after all.” She sits down again, deciding to give him a second chance. She had liked him well enough at dinner, and she has to cut him some slack, considering the circumstances. This is difficult for him, too, she wouldn’t have bothered giving him her number if it were different. But the fact that Draco leaving and their fight rips him apart like this makes it abundantly clear that their relationship and Draco are important to him. 

“I think you should come to the small welcome back party Narcissa is organising for Draco. By “small” I of course mean everyone who is anyone will be there - you don’t want to miss one of Narcissa’s events. Consider this your official invitation, I can send you the details later. I hope you have something decent to wear?” 

“I do know how to dress, you know!” Potter looks affronted for all but a moment, not having understood she was teasing. That was fine, if Draco gets it together and they fix this between them, they would have enough time to learn to read things like that. For now, she laughs and ignores his confused look. 

* * *

Pansy’s kitchen is a mess. There is flour on almost every surface, and all over both of the attempted chefs, which Draco can only tolerate because Pansy is more irked by it then he is. Empty containers of eggs, double cream and syrup splashes are everywhere. Pansy is kneeling in front of the oven, watching it as though it might explode any second. 

“What did you say we’re making again?” She sounds dubious. Like she doesn’t believe they made _anything_, only mixed some stuff together. Draco might have forgotten almost everything else, but he could bake this in his sleep. 

“Treacle tart, I told you a dozen times now. There is no need to doubt my competence, it’s insulting.” 

“And you know this recipe because?” That’s the thing - he doesn’t know either. He just _knows_ the recipe, without any clues as to why or since when. But dwelling on that only brings forward more questions Draco doesn’t need. 

“Stop asking questions already! You wanted to do something that brings me closer to - to that life, there you have it. It’s treacle tart, I made it all the time, that’s all I know.” Thankfully, Pansy takes the hint and lets the topic drop. She stands up, trying to dust the flour from her trousers but only smearing it around. Draco doesn’t point it out. 

“Well at least that means it was important to you. And maybe you _can_ bake, against any expectations, and we can enjoy some delicious tart with our tea later.” She is smirking and Draco gratefully accepts the change of subject. 

“_Maybe_ I can? That’s it - no tart for you.” 

“Good luck stopping me.” She looks far too smug for Draco’s taste, leaning against the counter, unconcerned with his threat. That wouldn’t do at all. 

Draco furtively grabs as much flour as he can hold behind his back. The perfect moment to attack comes a few seconds later, when Pansy looks up at him, presumably to remark on his silence. With a quick movement, he brings his fist in front of his face and blows the handful of flour all over Pansy. 

Where she was slightly covered in white spots before, she now resembles a ghost. The flour is everywhere, nesting in her hair, settling on her face, clinging to her clothes. For one glorious second, she stares at Draco in utter shock. Then she smirks wickedly at him, and Draco scrambles for shelter. He isn’t fast enough - warm, gooey butter hits the back of his head, slowly sliding down his spine and leaving a greasy trail. 

And then it’s on. They are both throwing things - eggshell, lemon zest, empty containers. 

Pansy is about to drench Draco in syrup when the oven peeps. They both freeze at the sudden reminder of what they are _supposed_ to be doing, and the realisation of what they _are_ doing. The kitchen is silent, all fighting and yelling stopped, and they stare at each other. Then they break out in hysterical laughter. They both look ridiculous, the kitchen turned into a battlefield, and they just threw food at each other. Their parents would be shocked if they knew, Pansy’s mother might even faint. 

Rudely interrupted by the oven _yet again_, they slowly calm down until their laughter subsided to breathless giggles. By the time they’ve cleaned their faces and hands, served the tea and cut the tart, they have finally stopped laughing completely. 

“This is _divine_, I never should have doubted you.” The words fill Draco with pride, warming him and making him smile. It feels nice, to be able to give Pansy something back, however small, for housing him and putting up with him. 

“Too right, you shouldn’t have. Though I must admit, this is better than even _I_ thought it would be. I wonder why I learnt this.” He didn’t mean anything by his words, but the smirk they cause to appear on Pansy’s face make him regret them instantly. 

“You are not going to like this, but we could ask Potter.” Draco reels back as if she has physically slapped him. He didn’t expect her to bring up _Harry_ right now. He should have, it isn’t too far a leap and Pansy takes every opportunity to bring his missing memories up. 

“Absolutely not! I don’t need _anything_ from him, I am fine without him.” 

_“Clearly_, you know exactly what you want to do now and are not just going through the motions at all.” Draco hates to admit it, but she has a point. He does what he is supposed to do, even looking into the law studies his father arranged for him. Draco knows studying law was always the plan, but he had postponed it for a year after he finished school. His father didn’t approve, of course, but his mother had convinced him. Draco doesn’t remember starting law, only how Blaise complained about his own studies and how he had begun to doubt if that was something he wanted to go through as well. 

And apparently, he hadn’t, and left instead. 

“I can figure this out on my own! I don’t need him to tell me who I am.” It comes out sounding meeker than he hoped it would, but Pansy smiles at him and squeezes his hand, making him feel a little better. 

“Of course not, you shouldn’t base who you are on others anyway, Potter is no exception. You know, I might have something to help you. Wait a second, would you.” And suddenly she is up and leaving, without further explanation. Draco is just about to go after her when she comes back. 

“Here, you gave me this shortly before you left. I thought you might have left some clues, but you didn’t. I am still cross about that by the way - you will need to make _a lot_ of this treacle tart to make up for that. Anyway, I think it’s time I give it back to you.” She holds a book towards him, _I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. _It is old and battered. Draco can clearly picture Pansy going through it again and again, searching desperately for _anything_ that he could have left her. And she didn’t find a single thing. Even as she is making light of it now, it hits Draco again how much he hurt her, how he probably doesn’t deserve her. 

“I- Thank you Pansy.” He clutches the book to his chest, something solid to hold on to as the emotions well up in him and threaten to spill over. 

“Oh dear, no need to get maudlin. Eat more of that delicious tart you made.” Pansy is not unaffected either, but Draco does as she says, silently swearing he will bake her all the treacle tartshe could ever want. 

* * *

“To sum this up - you had a horrible fight, Draco behaved like a child and is currently denying your existence, he still has _not_ _acknowledged_ that you are your own person, outside of his recovery, and you are expected to run after _him?”_ Ron stares at where Harry is slumped over at the table. He hates seeing him like this, it’s like Draco didn’t only take his heart but his whole spirit with him when he left. He hoped for anger, indignation, some _pride_! But no, Harry seems resigned, which is the worst look on his friend. 

Ron understands that things aren’t quite as simple as he portrayed them, that things are difficult for Harry. All he has done since Draco came back with no idea who he had become, was fight. And from what Ron saw, he did it mostly alone. 

Draco doesn’t appear interested in remembering his time together with Harry. Instead, he is throwing himself in a life he decided long ago to leave behind. And even that is understandable - Harry had defended Draco’s actions often enough in the past weeks - but this weird in between is killing him. Draco won’t commit to either choice and Harry is paying the price for it. 

The worst thing is that Harry _gladly_ pays it. He is too self-sacrificing for his own good, thinking of himself only when it’s too late, only after he did what he could for everyone else. It’s Ron’s job to make sure he doesn’t lose everything over this. 

“You need some boundaries, mate.” Harry is trying to interject again, to tell him that he would do absolutely _everything_ and _anything_ needed. Ron won’t accept that. 

“No, listen to me first. I realise that you love him and miss him and want him back, and that you would do anything for that. But that isn’t how it works.” Harry scowls at him, but he listens. This is the Ron’s gotten so far, so he decides to be satisfied with that. 

“Say, this is an auction, and the object on sale is our old Draco back. Shut up, I’m not proposing slavery, it’s a metaphor.” Harry grudgingly nods and makes a vague gesture with his hand. Ron chooses to interpret that as sign to go on. 

“So you would be willing to pay any price for him, right? You would sell your kidney if that is what it takes. Then we have the current owner of our old Draco – let’s call him Malfoy for clarity, shall we? Malfoy might not even be _able_ to sell Draco. He lost the paperwork, and now Draco is out of reach for both of you. Malfoy doesn’t know that yet, hasn’t really looked at the papers he has and even the experts who _did_ look at the papers can’t tell. But you would still pay anything, just for the _hope_ to get him back. In fact, you are _already_ _paying_ for being considered in the auction. You are not getting any of your funds back, they are all Malfoy’s now, to do with as he pleases. Malfoy might have no intention of selling Draco, he might leave the auction at any minute.” Ron stops, gives Harry some time to process what he said. 

“Before you bankrupt yourself, you need to decide how much you will pay. Because whatever the outcome of the auction, you can’t live on air alone. Don’t give all you are to someone who doesn’t want it and doesn’t appreciate it. _You deserve better_.” There is a long silence in which Ron watches his friend mull over what he said. He is right, he knows he is, and Harry knows it, too. But even with that knowledge, if it were Hermione, Ron would give her all he could to keep her. While he might not actually understand it -because can you really if you haven’t gone through it yourself- he can sympathise well enough. 

“What are you proposing I do then?” Harry still sounds dejected - Ron would call it defeated in anybody else, but Harry doesn’t give up, doesn’t _do_ defeat. 

“Three more tries. You give him three more chances, then he needs to make up his mind - he either wants you, or he doesn’t. Think about what you expect if he chooses you, don’t let him treat you like he does now. And accept it if he doesn’t choose you. Because you did all you could.” He knows Harry is far from sold, dubious whether this is the best course of action, but he would think about it. That is enough for now. 


	9. Chapter 9

Looking around, it is obvious Harry doesn’t belong here. These are not people he would normally talk to, more like those he would be forced to entertain at fund raisers. They’re wearing expensive suits and elegant gowns, hold drinks delicately and their laughter is fake. Pansy had warned him to dress fancy, but this was much more than Harry had expected from a garden party. He feels sorely under-dressed. 

Harry wouldn’t even be here, were it not for Draco. The Draco he knew wouldn’t be here either, but he supposes that doesn’t matter anymore. Draco _is_ here, and so Harry is too. Things might be strained when they meet, but that alone is no reason not to try. He will show Draco that he can accept these people if he wants their relationship back, that he will support him and doesn’t only see him as the husband he misses. Harry is still working on the last part, but it is work he is willing to do. For Draco, all for Draco. 

“Harry, what are you doing here?” Harry turns around, expecting to see Draco and yet surprised when he _does_ see him. Draco looks completely different from how Harry ever saw him. He wears a suit that, while elegant and well fitting, is somehow exactly like every other suit Harry has seen here this evening, something he would have thought too plain and boring for Draco’s taste. His wonderful hair is slicked back, looking sleek and professional, restrained - the opposite of what he had always loved about his hair. Draco also seems startled to see him, torn between telling him to go and being a bad host or welcoming him to stay despite their fight. He sounded genuinely curious in his question, not judging or angry, so Harry deems his chances of being allowed to stay pretty high. Draco wouldn’t even have talked to him if he wanted him gone. 

“Pansy invited me. She thought we should get over this, that I would be a fool to let you go like this. I agree, so here I am, asking to start over, if you are willing.” Harry smiles at him, hoping he doesn’t look too desperate. The truth is, he doesn’t doubt that Draco will agree. There is an undeniable connection between them - a spark, Draco used to say - and neither of them is good at ignoring it for long. Draco might not admit it, but he missed Harry just as much as Harry missed him. 

“Pansy, you said? I don’t know why I am surprised; she never could keep out of things that don’t concern her. Insufferable, honestly.” There is a fond smile on his lips as he looks over at where Pansy is talking to Narcissa. That is all Harry needs to quell any doubt that Draco will say yes, will try again. He waits to hear him say it anyway. 

“She might have a point. What did you have planned, should I agree?” He is putting on his imperious mask trying to look commanding but only managing tomask his excitement outright, but not entirely, if you knew where to look. 

“I thought I would let you decide, whatever you want to do. You said I was trying to make you someone you aren’t. I want to correct that - show me who you are, Draco.” His eyes light up at that, a smirk forming on his face. This is the man he married - joyful and scheming. 

Maybe giving him full control over their date is something Harry would come to regret but seeing Draco smile like this is worth it all. And if he is honest, so far he’s enjoyed everything Draco has come up with. 

“That is a brilliant idea, and I appreciate the gesture.” He smiles warmly at him, visibly deliberating over whether to say more, when someone calls his name. Harry looks up sharply, ripped out of the little bubble surrounding them, to find Blaise approaching, smiling obnoxiously bright. Draco isn’t annoyed by the interruption at all, smiling back and nodding. 

“I will plan something and get back to you on that. I have to go now, but you enjoy yourself, have some fun.” And then he is gone, leaving him for Blaise, in a sea of people Harry doesn’t know and, in all likelihood, won’t like. But he got a date with Draco. This wasn’t for nothing; he could talk to some tedious people before excusing himself. 

“A word, Mr. Potter?” While Harry is prepared to talk to several boring strangers, he hadn’t expected Lucius Malfoy. In retrospect, he should have. The man wouldn’t miss such a splendid opportunity to show Harry how he doesn’t belong in this world. As if Harry needs him to point it out. 

But he is still Draco’s father, so Harry smiles, cold and polite, and follows him to an empty spot by the fountain. Before Harry can feign interest in what he wants, Lucius starts talking. 

“I won’t pretend that we don’t both know what you are trying to do. I will _not_ let you lure back my only son. Consider this a warning, Mr. Potter, and keep your distance. You ruined him once already, I will not allow you to do so again. I would compensate you quite handsomely, more than you deserve, if you would agree to a divorce.” Lucius looks at him expectantly, waiting for Harry to acquiesce. 

Unbelievable. Lucius would honestly _pay_ someone to dump his son, because he doesn’t approve of Draco’s choice. Thereby completely ignoring the essential fact that it is _Draco’s _choice. Draco told Harry how cold and calculating Lucius could be, thinking himself keeper of the knowledge of how to achieve absolute happiness and forcing his son to live according to those ideals - well paid work, high social regard, ties to many important people, wealth, and someone to inherit the kingdom you’ve built. 

Harry doesn’t fit the plan. He has no aspirations to gather wealth, chooses his friends by personality and not connections, and couldn’t care less what complete strangers think of him. Of course Lucius wouldn’t approve. But to bribe him to go away? That is lower than Harry expected. He doesn’t want to spend one more minute in his company. 

“No.” Harry takes a moment to relish his stunned expression, then turns and leaves. He doesn’t want to stay any longer, Lucius having used up his capacity to tolerate cold-hearted bastards and tediousness. 

His plans are thwarted yet again when Blaise grabs his arm, pulling him away. 

“Leaving so soon, Potter? It’s a pity, I had hoped we could talk a little.” Blaise is still holding his arm, walking Harry around the garden and behaving like they are sharing an idle chat. At every attempt to subtly get free of him, Blaise shifts his grip slightly and Harry is stuck again. It is maddening. 

“I’m really not in the mood for another Leave-Draco-Alone Talk right now. Why don’t you ask Pansy to give you my number and you can leave a threatening voicemail?” With one very abrupt pull, Harry frees his arm. Blaise stumbles as he loses his hold, but quickly catches himself and smiles as if nothing happened. 

“Very funny. I wanted to express my sympathies. I know how it feels to lose Draco, and I speak from experience when I say you will never get over him.” He sounds as if he means it, as if it’s already decided that Draco will leave him. 

“As if you _cheating_ on Draco and him being in a life-changing accident are in any way comparable. Does he know? Because, while we decided that you should be the one to tell him, my patience is wearing thin. Either you tell him soon or I will.” Harry is serious, this has gone on long enough, but Blaise laughs it off. 

“Don’t try to threaten me, Potter. You would never tell Draco, it goes against your moral compass.” 

“Know a lot about that, do you?” 

“Let’s say I trust in your public image. It paints the picture of a good soul, and Draco tells much the same. Good, honest - would never betray the secrets of a friend.” With a last smirk he lets him go, turns to return to his place by Draco’s side. They fit disturbingly well into each other, standing too close, not touching but obviously belonging together all the same. 

It is frustrating, and Harry is about to storm over, to take the place that is rightfully his and currently occupied by Blaise, when his arm is grabbed again. 

“Don’t do anything stupid now, Potter.” Pansy is hissing in his ear, dragging him away from Draco and Blaise and towards the exit. “You were here, he saw you, he agreed to a date. What more do you want? Don’t crowd him now, you will make things worse again and all my hard work will be for nought. Just go and wait for him to come to you. Don’t ruin this with your impatience.” With a quick kiss to his cheek she is gone, leaving him filled with rage, his thoughts swarming. 

She is right, he got what he came for. He should leave. Draco is immersed in a world Harry doesn’t understand, a world he would try and endure for him. But right now, there is no space for him. 

* * *

“Any progress on your date with Potter?” Pansy has been asking for days, telling him to finally decide on something before she goes mad with his constant questioning. But this is an important decision, Draco won’t let himself be rushed so Pansy has new gossip to feed on. As it so happens, he has found the perfect thing. 

“Dumbledore is holding a reading.” Draco doesn’t even try to contain his anticipation. Pansy is aware of his near worship of the man - he has read every book he’s written, could quote them in his sleep, and had forced her to read them, too. She didn’t like them, thought them cryptic and deliberately confounding and criticised that even after reading the book, she had no idea what it was about. If he was honest, neither was Draco. There is no plot to speak of, instead it’s circling characters and musings and life. They are completely different to anything else Draco had ever read. 

And now he is holding a reading, and Draco could get an autograph! Dumbledore lives as secluded from the world as possible, claiming his judgement is better from afar, and never agreed to anything public. This might be Draco’s only chance to meet the man. 

Harry told him to choose something that would allow him some insight and show him who Draco is - this would be perfect. 

Pansy makes a grimace, probably remembering the countless hours she fought through Dumbledore’s books and imagining what a reading of them would be like. “You are sure you want to scare Potter off this early?” 

“At least _I_ have plans, what about you and your dreamer?” He doesn’t want to talk about Harry, it’s confusing and irritating. There is something between them, as undeniable as it is fascinating, pulling them together and making Draco feel weak when he thinks about Harry’s smile. He far prefers not to analyse these feelings too closely. 

Pansy looks confused for a moment, frowning at him, contemplating if Draco had gone mad, before she understands who he means. “Luna?” 

“Of course, Luna. Is there someone else I don’t know about?” 

“No, just Luna.” She smiles warmly and her eyes focus on something far away and her expression is clearly not meant for Draco. He has never seen Pansy like this. Infatuated - sure. But _this_, this is something else, more profound. If only she would stop pining already and _do_ something about it. 

“_Just Luna_, is it? Why haven’t you asked her out yet? You obviously want to.” She blushes, determinedly doesn’t look in Draco’s direction and doesn’t answer the question. Interesting. But it doesn’t make sense, unless -

“Pansy! Are you _scared_?” 

Pansy scowls at him and he is certain that had she something in her hands, she would throw it. “No! No, of course not. That’s ridiculous. You are projecting.” 

That is utterly unconvincing. She couldn’t have made it clearer if she held up a sign that read “I am terrified of asking my crush out_”_. “You _so_ _are_! I didn’t think you capable of it. There is nothing for it - I have to go with you next time and meet her.” 

Draco might be enjoying this too much, taking too much delight in teasing her and seeing her blush and scowl - but she deserves it. She did the same when he and Blaise started dating, continued to do so throughout their relationship and even makes comments concerning Harry now. She has this coming. 

“No. Absolutely not.” Draco smirks at her. No way that he wouldn’t go – there would be too many splendid opportunities for more teasing to miss it. 

* * *

The table had never looked right without Draco. Narcissa had known of course, that eventually her son would move out, and had in fact started to excuse himself with increasing frequency from the dinner table. But it had always been the unspoken agreement that he would return. Those occasions had been nice to indulge in some time alone with Lucius, to have a respite from being a parent. But then Draco had _left_, and the table had been unmistakably empty. 

It hadn’t been easy on either of them, losing their son, but the loss manifested differently for Lucius. Where Narcissa saw Draco in the chair he didn’t occupy, Lucius saw him in the life he wanted to give him, that was now unfulfilled; in the deserted table in the library he had had installed for Draco; in the cufflinks he wanted to pass down to Draco, the one he swears are a guarantee for success. As ultimate proof Lucius always cites that he wore them when he proposed to her, and she said yes. The most important win of his life, he would say, and the most unlikely one too. And while Narcissa always objected to being compared to a business transaction, it never failed to warm her and make her smile. 

And now Draco might receive the tie after all, reclaim his rightful place at their table and include them in his life again. Narcissa is determined to do whatever it takes to make that happen. 

They would need to have a detailed and honest conversation about why Draco felt it necessary to flee, to cut them out and why he didn’t talk about the issues with them first. Pansy had given vague answers in response to her prodding, saying he had left because he felt caged and as if his life were being dictated for him. 

Narcissa hates that he felt that way, that he didn’t think he could discuss this with them, but she understands it. She has been through the same, with _her_ parents, but had been lucky enough to fall in love with a man whom her parents approved of. 

She thought the same had happened for Draco with Blaise, and that she had succeeded in being better than her parents, that she hadn’t forced her expectations onto him. It would seem she was wrong. 

It won’t be an easy or pleasant conversation, but dearly needed if her relationship with her son is to function in the long run. It is also a conversation for another time. 

“How are things with Mr. Potter? I quite liked him when you brought him over for dinner.” Draco looks up, startled, not expecting the question. Then he blushes the most endearing shade of red, a small smile curling his lips. It’s like that then. Narcissa is very familiar with that expression, Lucius has a similar one, and Draco used to look the same when talking about Blaise. Before he can answer, Lucius does. 

“I didn’t like him. He is impertinent and overconfident and has no future to speak of.” Draco ducks his head down, the smile gone, focusing on his food and mumbling something confirmatory. 

It hurts Narcissa to see him like this, hiding his feelings because Lucius is inconsiderate. Narcissa stomps on his foot. He promised to try, but it seems he needs a reminder. Lucius glares at her, as if that affects her at all after all the time they have been married. She glares back, and Lucius cowers before her. With her dominance established, she tilts her head towards where Draco sits slumped in his chair. After a resigned sigh, Lucius sits up straight again and clears his throat. Draco immediately looks up at him. 

“I might have been - _hasty_ in my judgement. I am sure he is a _respectable_ young man, if you share his _aspirations_.” It is clear how painful admitting that is for him, and he could have done better, but it would do for now. Narcissa gives him an approving smile and nods. 

It has reached Draco at least, who offers an insecure smile in return. “Actually, we are going on a date this weekend. Dumbledore is holding a reading, can you imagine? I thought that would be an excellent opportunity -” Lucius interrupts him again. 

“You want to take him to a _reading_? Unacceptable. Not good enough. I could get you seats at the opera, I just heard from my good friend Cornelius that they will be performing a modern reinterpretation of _Orpheus and Eurydice_ this weekend. It is virtually _impossible_ to get tickets, but I could arrange something for you. That would surely impress him more than some weird author you are obsessed with.” Draco doesn’t visibly react, but Narcissa knows her son well enough to know he is hurt, deeply. He loves this author, longed for a chance to meet him since he first read his work and now his own father tells him his enthusiasm is weird and trivial. 

She kicks Lucius this time. He scowls at her, subtly leaning down to rub the hurt leg. He doesn’t even realise what he did wrong. Sometimes Narcissa wonders how she could possibly love this man - prideful, conceited and such a moron at times. But then he would do something sweet, say something that makes her laugh, try his best to make amends - and she remembers. 

But even if she loves him, she shouldn’t need to explain why telling his son that his idea is stupid and forcing a boring opera on him instead is not the way to be a good father! Lucius looks lost, however, and she knows without any doubt that this is exactly what she will have to do as soon as Draco leaves. 

“_I_ think the reading would be lovely Draco. I know how much Dumbledore means to you and I’m sure Mr. Potter would enjoy getting to know you better.” Maybe not the reading in itself - because Lucius has a point, Dumbledore’s writing is an acquired taste - but Potter would like to see Draco in his giddy passion. And from what Narcissa saw of their interactions, they could be good for each other. 

Draco smiles at her, until Lucius makes a scoffing noise and his eyes snap back to his father. She sees it now, how she failed Draco. She gave Lucius too much leeway, too much control over Draco’s life. Lucius might think he knows the ultimate secret to happiness, but he was never good at recognising how fundamentally different Draco is from himself. His happiness will never be found in being obscenely rich or dedicating his life to his work. Draco most of all needs someone to love, and Potter might be that someone. 

Shooting nervous glances between the two of them, Draco lifts his chin as he finally settles on Lucius. “That would be fantastic, thank you father.” 

Lucius grins smugly, but Draco looks the opposite of satisfied. He is back to staring at his food, pushing it around and not eating any of it. But now it’s too late, Draco decided on going to the opera, something he hates and finds boring, and nothing and no one is going to change his mind. 

Lucius will have to listen to the lecture of his life as soon as Draco is out of the door. 

* * *

Draco reminds her very much of Pansy when she first joined them. To this day, Margret doesn’t know what inspired the girl to take up _knitting_ of all things, but she is glad she did. Pansy is a delight - intelligent, always a clever answer ready, and indulgent with their gossipping. Margret has watched her mature over the years and loves her like a granddaughter. But it had taken her a while to break out of the rules and manners she hid herself behind. Pansy used to be restrained, always polite to a fault and never really participating in the conversation. She had slowly warmed up, offering input on others’ tales and soon after sharing her own. The way Draco sits in his chair, posture perfect, sipping his tea and attentively listening while not saying anything himself - it’s the same as Pansy had been. Margret has a hard time reconciling the young man she sees with the friend Pansy had told them about. 

“Apologies for being late, but I had to stop on my way to get some flowers for our guest.” Margret watches in amusement as Draco accepts the flowers, startled and staring at Luna. She could hardly blame him; Luna is something else. Margret doesn’t even want to know how she could possibly have known Draco would be here. Most likely someone wrote her a message, but Luna has an uncanny way of _knowing_ things. 

“I am Luna, and you presumably are Draco?” Pansy looks between the two of them, her face horrified, clearly dreading the encounter. This should be amusing. 

“_You_ are Luna? Very pleased to make your acquaintance.” His smile is genuine, but Margret frowns at his next comment, said in a whisper - and she only calls it that because it was meant for Pansy alone, his voice was far too loud for it to qualify as one - about Luna’s newly pink hair. He’d better not have a problem with her. 

While the comment causes concern to rise in Margret, it makes Luna smile, bright and happy, twirling one of the long strands around her finger. 

“It’s not pink actually, but closer to the colours of cherry blossoms. They are celebrating Hanami in Japan right now, celebrating cherry blossoms as a metaphor of life - beautiful yet fleeting. I’ve always wanted to see them in person. Do you like them?” 

“I do, yes, they are lovely. Did you know that Pansy has dreamed of seeing them since her mother hung a photograph picturing them?” Pansy makes an outraged noise, Luna cocks her head in consideration at her, and Draco smirks. Margret approves. She knew there had to be a reason that he is Pansy’s best friend.

Watching these two dance around one another has been amusing and uplifting, but it is getting to be tiresome. Frankly, Margret is sick of seeing them waste their chances and leaving sad. 

She also can wait another month - if they get together too soon she will lose the betting pool to Ruth and never hear the end of it. 

The strange mutual courting started two years ago when Pansy had offered to buy Luna a drink at _The Mermaid’s Tail_, which was as forward an invitation as one could get. Luna, being Luna, started talking about the modern confusion between mermaids and sirens. Keen observers would notice that doesn’t mean no, but Pansy’s face had fallen. Nevertheless, she seemed mesmerised by Luna’s detailed explanation while they left, most likely going to get that drink Pansy proposed. 

Then there was the incident at Valentine’s Day, when Pansy had brought cookies for Luna and Luna gratefully accepted them, telling Pansy about old St. Valentine marrying star-crossed lovers. Or when Luna brought all of them flowers and only Pansy got a sunflower. If her disappointed look was anything to go by, she didn’t know their meaning - adoration, loyalty, and longevity. Practically a declaration of her love right there, if only Pansy had _seen_ it. Or asked the Internet, like they do for everything else these days. 

Margret would have said something herself, would have at least dropped some hints - but the rules of the wager forbid it. And keeping to the rules is a matter of honour. 

Draco, however, isn’t obligated by these rules. And it would seem he is as exasperated with the two as she is. He urgently needs to learn subtlety, though. 

“I like her, you have my approval. Now ask her out already and elope to Japan to celebrate Hanami.” Pansy is blushing an adorable deep red, trying to shush him by clamping a hand over his mouth, but failing miserably. 

“That would be wonderful, but I don’t think I can this year. I took a cat into my care; he wouldn’t like to see me leave again this quickly.” 

“That is alright, I have taken a stray in recently, too.” Draco makes an offended noise but is ignored, Pansy and Luna too caught up in sharing one of their private smiles, containing worlds and yet unreadable for an outsider. 

Maybe they would finally get it together, after this push. Margret wishes them happiness. 


	10. Chapter 10

Draco telling him to wear something fancy wasn’t unexpected – Harry had grimaced at it, but it was an expected evil. He put on his best suit, the one Draco told him made him look _dashing_, stole some flowers out of their garden, and drove to collect Draco from Pansy. 

Standing in front of the door, Harry is nervous, giddy. Draco refused to tell him where they are going, told him it was a surprise and that he would have to wait. Harry had been fine not knowing, until Ron – such a _great_, _supportive_ friend - listed the possibilities of horribly stuffy events Draco could drag him to - pretentious theatres, wine tastings where one wrong word would get you thrown out, expensive restaurants that never serve enough food but artistically arrange it on the plate. 

Before he can back out, Pansy opens the door. She looks him up and down, judging every little detail, then smirks up at him. “I have to say, after what you wore to the party I had my doubts about you, Potter. But this? Fabulous.”

Harry is smirking back at her when Draco appears behind her. He gives a wary smile at Harry’s expression. “Pansy, what did you say to him?” 

“Nothing at all, darling. Now get out of here.” With that she pushes a worryingly reluctant Draco out the door and all but into Harry’s arms. Her snicker indicating that was most likely on purpose. Harry doesn’t mind, Draco looks stunning in his suit, and he would take every excuse to hold him close. But for now, he settles for steadying him and watching as he smooths his suit right again. 

“You know the rules children; you bring him back at eleven and don’t get into any trouble!” She glares at the them both, making Harry laugh and Draco blush adorably, before mumbling something about her being _utterly unbelievable_ and dragging Harry away. Harry, still laughing, lets himself be pulled after saluting and a “Sure thing, Miss.” 

Hurrying after him, he opens the door for Draco. He scoffs at him, but enters, making no move to close the door on his own. Harry chuckles fondly and closes the door himself when Draco glares at him, the force reduced through by a still prominent blush. 

The driving is a lot more awkward than Harry had hoped. After Draco gave him the address, they didn’t speak a word, Draco scowling out of the window and exuding bad energy. It makes Harry uncomfortable, how sullen Draco is, causes him to think he might not even want to be here. And if Draco doesn’t want this, Harry won’t force him. Draco has this way of spoiling everything without anyone being able to prove it. It could be useful, but it could also mean endless exasperation and annoyance when Draco is sulking. 

“We don’t have to go if you’d rather not. Just say the word and I will bring you back to Pansy.” _Finally_ Draco looks at him, astonishment written all over his face. That is a good sign, more silence would have meant an immediate cancelling of their plans. With Draco reacting there is still hope. 

“You really would? We are already in the car, isn’t it too late by now?” Harry scoffs. Where did he get that idea from? He would leave right in the middle of whatever Draco planned if the situation called for it. 

“It’s never too late. We could always reschedule if today is just bad.” And because he doesn’t want to force Draco to do anything, Harry pushes himself to add, “Or not do it at all, if that is what you want.”

“I would like to go anyway, though your offer is appreciated. Maybe we could start this evening over?” It’s a ridiculous idea, as if they realistically could act as if the last ten minutes hadn’t happened, but Draco always has ridiculous ideas, and more often than not they turn out to be genius. And even if that weren’t the case, Draco’s tentative smile would get Harry to agree to absolutely anything. 

“Let me say then, that you look absolutely stunning tonight.” Draco blushes at the compliment. He had always done that, even when he knew he looked gorgeous - he seemed surprised that Harry said it. Knowing what he does about his parents, it’s only logical. Draco most likely never got much praise for such basic things as looking nice, simply being there. It always made Harry sad to think that he probably never got positive feedback on who he is as much as what he achieved. 

“Thank you, you do too. I had doubts after the party but apparently you _do know _how to dress.” The comment makes Harry laugh and, hoping to distract from his own blush, expand on it. 

“That is almost the same thing Pansy said.” 

“Well, we _expansively_ discussed your appearance - you can’t blame us, it was terrible.” Draco’s smile takes the slight sting out of his words, but Harry makes an offended noise regardless. 

“Come on, it wasn’t _that_ bad!” Draco laughs out loud at that. Maybe it _was _that bad. 

“Maybe not _bad _exactly, but inappropriate. Which is ultimately worse, if you think about it?” That might be true, Harry had never considered that, but he is inclined to trust Draco on the matter. But Draco had all but admitted that Harry indeed _looked good_ which is enough to make him smile smugly. 

“At least it _looked good._ Would you honestly have preferred I look like a moron?” Draco smirks at him, and Harry instantly regrets his word choice - he practically asked for that one. 

“Harry dear, you did that anyway.” Harry affects another hurt expression, but really - he is happy to see Draco enjoy himself again. And he would hardly be Draco if there weren’t any snarky comments. 

* * *

Draco curses himself for accepting his father’s proposal to go to the opera. It is worse than he expected. He doesn’t understand a word that is being sung – the supertitles do help, but it’s the principle of the matter, the old man next to him keeps humming something completely different and the chair is extremely uncomfortable. He knew this was a bad idea the moment his father mentioned Fudge as part of the production. 

And yet he had agreed, simply because it was his father’s idea. Lucius Malfoy doesn’t ask, he orders. And Draco had never done anything but obey. 

Harry is sitting close to him, as close as their chairs will allow. He is bored out of his mind, fiddling with the program and casting glances at Draco. Every time their eyes meet, Harry smiles at him. It has become a sort of juvenile game, watching the other without getting caught. It’s stupid and doesn’t make much sense, but it sends a thrill down his spine. And looking at Harry is no hardship, a bonus if anything. 

“Want to get out of here?” Harry is leaning that last bit closer to him, voice a low rumble in his ear, a smirk on his face. Draco is stunned by the picture he makes. He can only nod, because yes, he would follow Harry everywhere right now. His wicked grin turns brighter, and he stands, offering Draco a hand. He leads him out, ignoring the irritated complaints and glares directed at them. 

Harry only stops when they’ve left the building, breathing in the evening air as if he had been caged in a cave with the air gone stale long ago. Draco supposes he kind of was, they both were. And in their recently acquired freedom, he doesn’t want to stay here any longer. “Now that you dragged us out here, you might as well take us to somewhere fun.” 

Harry grins at him, wide and slightly manic. Draco doesn’t hesitate as he opens the door for him - as irritatingly charming as the last time he did that. 

* * *

Harry thought bowling would be a fantastic idea. It was the place most unlike the stuffy opera house with strict rules to sit still and not make a noise that he could think of. Moving is a vital part of bowling, loud screams of triumph or frustration are encouraged, and the entire atmosphere is free, everyone intent on having a good time. He should have known Draco would find a problem somewhere. 

“For the last time, you can’t wear your own shoes, even if they look better.” Draco doesn’t even glance at the shoes Harry holds out to him, arms crossed and pouting. 

“I _told you_, they are _unhygienic_. I don’t even want to know whose sweaty feet were in there before.” That is a good point, though he hates having to concede that. Harry mostly tries not to think about it and trust the shoes have been cleaned by the diligent employees of the bowling alley. 

But Draco won’t even _consider_ changing his shoes, categorically refusing bowling as a whole. Well, Harry will have to twist his arm then. “That’s too bad, I was looking forward to beating you.” 

Draco makes an enraged noise and grabs the shoes from him. “As if you could beat me Potter. Just you wait and see.” 

Harry tries hard not to laugh as Draco stalks off towards their alley, head high and holding the shoes as far away as possible. He should have thought of making this into a challenge before trying to discuss this logically for ten minutes. It is a mutual flaw much exploited after all. 

He stops short when he sees Draco taking off his jacket, loosening his tie, and rolling up his sleeves. “Stop staring, Potter, and come over here so I can beat you.” 

Harry chuckles fondly - as if Draco even stands a chance. “Bring it on then.” 

It soon becomes obvious that Draco has no idea what he is doing. He takes ages to choose a ball and finally settles on a blue one simply because he likes the colour. He stands too close to the starting line, ball close to his face, forehead wrinkled in concentration as if trying to use thought-control, still and utterly focused. With a sudden movement, he hauls his arm behind himself, losing grip on the ball and sending it flying through the air. 

Harry can’t help it - the situation is too comical. Draco looks completely dumbfounded, staring open mouthed at where the ball landed, near the people bowling next to them. One of them is kind enough to bring the ball back, seemingly not bothered by Draco’s silent processing or Harry’s hysterical laughter. 

Draco stares at the ball newly returned to his hand as if it committed high treason, until another wave of laughter catches his attention and he directs his glare at Harry. “You think that’s funny, don’t you? You are lucky I’ve never played this _insipid game_ before, or you wouldn’t stand a chance.” 

“Come on dear, don’t pout. I will teach you, alright?” Harry honestly _wants_ to - seeing Draco discover new things is a delight - but he can see him hesitating. “It would make my inevitable victory much more triumphant.” 

Draco considers him for a long time, eyes narrowed, before clenching his jaw in determination. “Fine, but don’t think I will let you win because of this.” 

“Okay, I’ll just show you how it’s done. With the red ball, though. Maybe not as pretty, but at least you won’t lose your grip on that one.” Draco glares harder but accepts the ball and doesn’t take the bait. That might be for the best, Harry seriously intended to play when he brought them here and as fun as bickering with Draco is, it is not what he wants right now. 

“First, you stand all wrong.” Without thinking, he takes Draco’s hips to position him, stilling as he realises what he just did. 

Draco is unbelievably close, not moving at all and clutching the ball tightly. His breathing is stilted, and he isn’t exactly relaxed, but he also doesn’t push him away. Draco had never kept quiet if something bothers him, so Harry deems it safe to continue. He reaches around Draco for the hand holding the ball, leading it to the side. 

“Now you need to focus on where you want the ball to hit and roll it off your hand onto the floor. It’s easier if you lean into your knees and go with the movement.” Taking a moment to enjoy Draco being close, Harry stays despite having finished his explanation. Bowling is way too fast. 

Finally, he gets a hold of himself, stepping back in sudden embarrassment and coughing to distract himself from it. It doesn’t help. 

Draco appears unaffected by the awkwardness, sending a teasing smirk over his shoulder before focusing on his throw. He takes a deep breath, moves his arm back, and throws the ball right into the gutter. It slowly rolls past the pins, leaving all of them standing. Well, Harry didn’t think his aim would be _that _off. Draco makes a frustrated noise. 

“But the actual throw was good! Why don’t you try again and stay more in the centre this time?” Draco scowls at him but takes the next ball, breaths, throws, hits the gutter. 

Harry watches the spectacle for a while, skipping his turns under the guise of letting Draco figure his technique out. However, Draco is getting more and more agitated and no better in his throws. Sooner or later the ball rolls of into the gutter every time. 

“We could put the lane bumpers up. You know, like they do for the kids?” He knows mentioning children was the wrong thing to do the second he says it, but Draco’s withering glare would have been enough to make him regret his word choice regardless. 

“Do I look like a child to you, Potter? I would like to see _you_ do better before you mock me.” The thing is, Harry isn’t much better. He’s played often enough with Ron to get the technical aspects down but somehow he only ever manages to hit a few pins by sheer luck. But it is always fun. And Draco doesn’t know he is equally terrible - Harry made sure of that. He is curious to see how long it will take for him to notice. 

“Alright, watch and learn.” Harry makes a big production out of choosing a ball, inspecting each one for imagined flaws and muttering wildly under his breath. Draco is starting to make impatient noises. Harry smirks, careful to ensure that Draco won’t see and figure it out too fast. He picks up the red one and takes another minute to correct his perfectly fine stance. Then he throws. The ball comes down hard, too close to the gutter, rolling a few inches before falling down with a heavy thump. 

“That was awful, Potter. Didn’t you say you were some kind of prodigy?” Harry very deliberately never said anything about his own skill. He merely mentioned he went with the Weasley's all the time, that they even participate in tournaments and that he goes with them. In reality, he accompanies them to watch and cheer for them, but he let Draco believe he participates as well. 

“I never claimed to be a prodigy. And this is only the beginning, I’m still warming up.” 

It takes five tries with altogether two toppled over pins before Draco realises it. “Yet again, dreadful! I’m starting to think you can’t play at all! Wait a second - you can’t, can you?” 

Draco stares at him, disbelieving, and Harry isn’t sure anymore that this was a great idea. _His_ Draco would have loved it, would have laughed and sworn revenge - but this Draco? He looks like he is tempted to murder Harry. He is about to apologise, when Draco starts laughing. 

“I thought you one of the best in the country, winning international tournaments, but you might just be worse than _me_.” The relief Harry feels is immeasurable. Watching Draco fall over laughing he knows he hasn’t changed too much. This is still worth fighting for. 

“As if, I play with _the absolute best_, I totally am better than you.” Draco stills at that, calming down to quieter chuckles and regards him thoughtfully. 

“Well I am superior at everything I do, so _naturally_ I am better than you. I fear there is only one way to find out.” Harry would never say no to a good competition, but paired with that smile, he stands no chance. 

“You are on, Malfoy.” 


	11. Chapter 11

Draco is staring miserably at his computer. Looking over those courses again, then. Pansy sighs. She had hoped Draco would finally free himself from Lucius’ commands. But here he is, looking at courses on medicine and law that he himself has no interest in, solely because his father so much as _suggested_ that he would like for Draco to force himself through this. Draco had withstood his wishes for a while, but Pansy watched him return from family dinners at the manor increasingly dejected. Pansy can’t imagine Narcissa actively berating Draco, nor openly stopping her husband from doing so. Scold him behind closed doors - without a doubt. But Draco was sure not to notice that, consequently thinking his mother approves. 

“Draco darling, why don’t you put that away for a while and instead do something nice. Remember we brought these books with us from Potter’s place? The ones with the commentary you wanted to read?” Draco makes a noncommittal noise and doesn’t look up from his computer, scanning endless rows of tedious text. 

“At least _talk_ to me, don’t just dismiss me because you are in a mood.” Pansy had had enough of watching him force himself into things and listen to his complains. She would not also become someone to take his bad mood out on. 

“You want me to talk? Fine!” Draco slams his computer shut, swivelling around in his chair to glare at her. 

“Stop telling me how to live my life. You do it with Blaise, with Harry and now even with what I consider as a possible future. It is _none of your business_! I appreciate all that you do for me, but that does not make my life yours to govern.” 

“_Your life_, is it? Then go ahead, live your life however you want. But do what _you_ want, not what would please your father.” With a meaningful look Pansy leaves, not wanting this to escalate any further. 

* * *

The evening was off to a rough start. It is customary for everyone to bring something small - a salad or dessert or something. Everyone else had, Ron and Hermione, Ginny, Neville, and he cooked the main dish himself. Only Draco hadn’t. To be fair, Harry forgot to tell him. He was so excited about the prospect of re-introducing Draco to their friends that he completely forgot to tell Draco that more than a bottle of wine would be expected from him. It was easily explained though, and everyone understood. 

The night might very well have been salvaged from there, but Draco is behaving like a prick. He’s been distracted all evening, not engaging in conversation and only answering direct questions with as few words as possible. It was utterly infuriating, seeing how hard everyone tried to involve him, to make him feel welcome, and receiving nothing more than bland smiles and polite answers. 

It was obvious Draco’s thoughts were somewhere else, that something was bothering him, but that is _no reason_ to behave the way he has. 

Then his phone rings. Hermione stops what she was saying, Ginny halts with her fork halfway to her mouth, Ron raises an eyebrow and Neville watches him closely. Harry stares, waiting for Draco’s reaction to the call. Draco looks down at his phone, a smile blooms on his face and he excuses himself from the room. They silently watch him leave, resuming their conversations only once as the door falls shut after him. Harry doesn’t listen, still caught in that smile. 

Harry hadn’t seen him look like that all evening. He hadn’t heard him laugh, a sound he used to be able to provoke with dumb jokes and yet hasn’t heard in far too long now. It hurts, more than he expected it would. It feels like the sword that has been hovering over him has finally fallen down. 

Still not hearing his friends, he stands up. “I am going to tell him we usually don’t have phones at the table. I’ll be right back.” 

Draco has gone into the kitchen, idly scanning over the evidence of Harry’s cooking while listening attentively and humming along. He looks up as Harry enters, smiles at him and holds up a finger for him to wait. Harry is seething. He doesn’t want to wait, he’s waited long enough. 

“Blaise, I will have to call you back, but I am certain I am free Sunday.” He stops, hums, smiles some more. “Yes, I look forward to seeing you, too. Bye.” 

With that he ends his call, still smiling stupidly, and pockets his phone. “I know it’s bad manners, but I had to take that, it was important. Shall we go back?” 

Harry hates how unconcerned he sounds, how easily he admits that Blaise is more important than him, how Blaise made him smile with nothing more than a phone call. Harry used to do that, used to be able to tell by the tone of his voice when he blushed and tease him for it, making him blush harder. 

Now it is _Blaise_ doing that. 

“You didn’t have to end your call early. It’s only me after all, hardly as important as Blaise.” Draco’s smile falls at Harry’s tone, his stance changes from relaxed to defensive and he narrows his eyes at him. Harry welcomes the sight, he wants a _fight_, wants this done and over with. 

“If you are saying what I think you are saying, I suggest you take it back. I realise it wasn’t polite of me to leave the table but you have _absolutely no right_ to either listen to my private calls or be jealous.” 

“No right to be jealous? _I am your husband! _I have _every right_ to be jealous and angry when you flirt with someone else _right in front of me_.” Draco doesn’t say anything, just stares at him in bewilderment. 

Harry has had enough of that, of the uncertainty and awkwardness between them. Either Draco returns to him, fully and willing to fight for his memories back, or he leaves him to finally mourn his husband. “In fact, I have put up with that long enough - I don’t want to anymore. Choose, either him or me.” 

“If you are going to be like that, I choose him.” Logically Harry knows Draco doesn’t understand what he chose, how profoundly important this is. He doesn’t know about the plan Ron proposed, about the finality of his choice. He would hardly have been this flippant and nonchalant if he knew. This is a decision made in anger, said more to hurt Harry than because he carefully considered and came to an educated and reasonable decision. But it _does_ hurt, and Harry isn’t very concerned with logic at the moment. 

He was constantly aware that Draco has feelings for Blaise, that his amnesia bereft him of his knowledge and growth and left him with a love he got over long ago. However, he didn’t honestly expect it to go anywhere. Blaise had cheated, had taken Draco’s trust and affection and thrown it away, and stomped on his heart for good measure too. Harry didn’t think Pansy would allow him back in Draco’s life, let alone in his heart. But Blaise always had a spot there, even when Draco remembered fully well what the bastard did to him. 

But if Draco is to choose him now, he should at least know _exactly_ _who_ it is he is pledging his love to. And if no one is going to tell him, neither Pansy nor Blaise himself, Harry would have to. “_Of course_ you would choose him. Do you know that he cheated on you?” 

Draco takes a step back at that, looking as if Harry slapped him. He hates that he did that to Draco, that he had to inflict that old hurt all over again, but Draco deserves to know. And if he is honest, he enjoys watching the favours turn against Blaise. 

Harry feels manic with the power he holds, unable to stop and almost not wanting to. He takes deliberate steps closer to Draco, doesn’t let him escape the truth. 

“You didn’t, did you? He didn’t tell you. You walked in on them, caught them red handed. He claimed to be working late and you wanted to surprise him, so you drove to his office and found him getting cosy with his coworker. I wonder if that was the first time, you said you didn’t even want to know. You just packed your things and left, left them all behind and ran.” Draco is shaking his head, starting slowly and unconscious of the movement but becoming increasingly violent. He backs further away from Harry, presses himself against the counter when there is no room left. 

“You can deny it all you want but that won’t change the facts - your beloved Blaise is a cheating bastard. You don’t have to believe me, ask Pansy, ask _him_. They know, they all know, and they didn’t tell you. Do you know where Blaise is, right now? I bet he called you from _work_.” Draco winces at that, face twisting in a horrible grimace that tells Harry all he needs to know. 

“Is _that_ the person you choose over me?” Draco doesn’t say anything, clutching the counter behind his back and staring at him with wide eyes. 

Suddenly Draco straights up, lifts his chin in defiance and moves away from the counter. “_Yes_, yes that is who I choose. You want to know why? Because I don’t believe you, Potter. Blaise _loves_ _me_ and I love him, of course I choose him. He doesn’t need to tell disgusting lies or make people doubt what they have for me to choose him. Now move out of my way, I want to leave.” 

Draco doesn’t wait for him to move, violently pushes him to the side and passing without a backward glance. 

The kitchen feels empty, only Harry and his rage filling it. 

* * *

Draco doesn’t know why what Harry said shook him so deeply. Harry was _lying_, must have been, couldn’t possibly have told the truth. Blaise _wouldn’t_. He _loved_ him and they were planning their wedding - he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t _cheat_ on him, wouldn’t _lie_ to him, wouldn’t _break his heart_ like that. 

Draco considered asking Pansy, letting her reassure him that no, Harry is making things up. But he isn’t convinced anymore that she would tell him the truth. Harry managed to sew doubt in him, and Draco hates himself for allowing it to take root, for doubting. Of course he can trust her - she is his best friend, she would never lie to him. And yet he keeps hearing Harry’s voice, telling him she knew, knew and said nothing. 

No, he won’t allow filthy lies to poison his relationships. Harry only said that to hurt him, because he couldn’t deal with the fact that Draco chose Blaise over him. He was petty and vicious and with just one sentence he destroyed the fledging trust Draco had built in him. And Draco can’t deny that the bond is there, pulling him towards Harry and connecting them in a way Draco doesn’t understand. There is something about Harry that Draco just can’t resist. 

But that doesn’t matter now, because Harry doesn’t matter now. It was foolish, insipid, a dream, inconsequential and unimportant. 

It is time to stop dreaming. 

Draco will forget about Harry, about the temptation he represents and life he offers. Draco will study law or medicine or whatever else his father chooses. He will continue to show up for family dinner to make his mother happy. He will love Blaise with all he has and never think of these nasty lies again. He will apologise to Pansy for snapping at her and be a good friend again. He will file for divorce. 

Draco is done with Harry Potter. 


	12. Chapter 12

Harry stares at the letter. This can’t be happening, it can’t be _over_. 

He knows he behaved like a giant twat, throwing Blaise’s cheating in Draco’s face like that. But he didn’t _think_ at that moment - wanted to hurt Draco the way Draco hurt him. Harry debated calling and apologising, asking to see him again, but in the end he never did. He thought to give Draco space. 

And now he holds the divorce papers in his hands. 

He could delude himself into thinking Draco would forgive him, would come back so they could figure things out, but the letter laying heavy in his hands destroyed that. 

He remembers Ron telling him how Draco might not choose him, that he needed to accept that, knowing he did all he could. It sounded reasonable back then, convinced that wasn’t going to happen anyway. But now it _did happen _and Harry couldn’t honestly say he did all he could. He raged and screamed, didn’t control his temper and lost Draco over it. It was his own fault, in the end, and now he has to live with that. 

“Alright there, mate?” Harry flinches, having forgotten Ron came over. Something to do with Hermione worrying about him and not trusting him to ask should he need anything. She is right, of course. Harry is glad for Ron’s presence, but he would never have asked him to leave his family on a Saturday morning. But Ron came over, made his fabulous pancakes and Harry didn’t agonise over Draco’s silence for a few hours - until he checked his mail. 

“Yeah, I am fine. Draco is filing for divorce. I just got the papers.” He doesn’t even sound convincing to his own ears, Ron would never believe him. 

“How many times did I tell you not to hide when you feel down? Show me that.” Ron takes the papers out of his hand, leads him back inside and presses him down into the couch in the living room. Harry lets himself be directed, numb with the news, his mind far away. 

Ron clears his throat, catching his attention and startling him out of his thoughts. “Sorry to tell you, but it would seem you are right. Draco is filing for divorce. You are sure you don’t want to talk about this?” 

“_I am fine_. There is nothing to talk about.” Harry grits his teeth, he doesn’t want his pity, doesn’t want to hear how time heals all wounds and he needs to stay positive. He doesn’t want to hear that things will be fine. 

“Don’t talk then, that’s okay too.” Ron smiles at him, signalling that it really _is _okay and a wave of affection for him overcomes Harry suddenly. “But know that we are all here for you. This can’t be easy, but you don’t have to deal with it alone.” 

They sit in silence for a while, Harry waiting for the inevitable reassurance of brighter times ahead while Ron drinks his tea and throws furtive glances at him. 

Harry can’t bear it anymore, the silence pressing and heavy. “Why did I yell at him? Things were going _great_ until I started this stupid fight.” 

“No, you don’t get to blame everything on yourself.” Ron sets his cup down with so much vigour that tea splashes over, but he pays it no mind. “You know as well as I do that things weren’t all _great_ before either. We said three times more, remember? Then he should choose. He did. And he didn’t choose you. You knew that was a possibility.” 

Yes, logically Harry knew. That doesn’t mean that he accepted that in his heart as well. Ron seems to understand that, too, because his eyes grow unbearably gentle, his voice losing the sharp edge it held just a moment ago. 

“You will sign those papers and you will take time to grieve. Mourn what you lost and celebrate what you had. Heal. Talk to us, watch sappy movies, eat unholy amounts of ice cream - do whatever it takes. I am always here, ready to talk, to listen, to sit in silence, to throw stones in the ocean, seriously - whatever you need. Could you nod to show me you understand that, that you won’t allow every feeling to eat away at you and fester inside?” Harry nods. He isn’t sure he can do that, but the offer alone makes him feel better. 

Ron smiles at him, gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze as he stands up and hums something mindless as he starts a new batch of pancakes. Harry definitely needs them. 

* * *

Draco had a plan. He was going to forget all about Harry and what he said, he was going to study something his father approves of, and he was going to trust and love Blaise. He was going to reclaim his life. 

The plan isn’t working. 

Law is incredibly tedious. The professors are dull, the other students are uninspired and only ever want to talk about cases they read, the classrooms are bland and uncomfortable. Forcing himself up in the mornings to make it to class has become increasingly difficult, and without Pansy rudely splashing water in his face when Draco is in danger of running late, he would have missed half of them already. 

Still Draco struggles through the books, forces a smile on his face when either Blaise or his father ask and tells them about how _fascinating_ everything is. They believe him, smile and congratulate and tell him it will get even better. His mother just raises an eyebrow at him, but thankfully doesn’t question him. 

Harry won’t get out of his head. He looked terrible when they signed the divorce papers, trying to talk to him alone. When Draco refused him, he apologised for what he did, earnest and sincere, but Draco ignored that too. It was too late by then and he had no interest in indulging him further. But he can’t forget about the apology either. Even worse are the memories of his laugh, his smile, his stupid jokes and his unconcealed and unapologetic fondness of the world around him, and of Draco. 

He found one of the books, one Harry wrote in. Draco didn’t want to read it at first, forced himself to put it away and stop wondering, to focus on the life he decided on. But it was far too tempting, and when Draco couldn’t sleep all night for curiosity, he got up and sneaked the book back into bed with him. Not that Pansy would judge him if she knew, she has been nothing but supportive, encouraging him to try everything he’s idly considered - makeup, painting, books. She would say anything occupying his thoughts despite his best efforts is worth trying. But he hid the book from her anyway, for reasons he didn’t care to examine too closely. It felt private, he didn’t want to share it. He was up all night, reading and laughing at the comments, and falling asleep in his class the next day. 

Draco has read all of them by now, couldn’t stop himself and didn’t even care about Pansy smirking in triumph at him. The commentary Harry wrote is highly entertaining, that which Draco wrote highly educating. Some of the thoughts he understands, could imagine writing himself. Others are references he doesn’t understand, or more brazen than he would dare. Sometimes it feels like they were written by someone else completely. Draco supposes in a way they were. 

Blaise is wonderful. He supports Draco’s studies, answers his questions, compliments his first weak attempts at drawing. He loves Draco. And Draco can’t stop doubting. Every time Blaise must cancel because _something came up at the office_, Draco remembers Harry saying Blaise cheated with his coworker. Draco had even visited him once, in an irrational onslaught of jealousy, to get a look at the person Blaise shares an office with, assuming them the most obvious choice as they are rather close. She is pretty. Tall, blond, wide smile. Draco doesn’t know if she is the same colleague Blaise allegedly cheated with, but she could be tempting for Blaise. 

Draco doesn’t like thinking that, doesn’t like not trusting him. He loves Blaise, he should be able to trust him - he used to be, he had never once wondered if maybe Blaise wasn’t being honest with him. He needs to ask, to make sure that he is imagining things, that he is being ridiculous. He won’t let a filthy lie destroy what he has. 

“Penny for your thoughts.” Blaise is suddenly there, pressing a kiss to his cheek and pulling the book Draco is supposed to be reading out of his hand. “You have been staring unblinkingly at the same page for ten minutes, love. What’s bothering you?” 

Draco looks up at Blaise’s smiling face, the little frown betraying the concern he tries not to show. Draco can’t ask him, how could he accuse him of something vile simply because Harry did so? “I am fine, honestly. I just need a break.” 

“You have been distracted more often than not lately, something you want to talk about?” Draco winces, he hadn’t realised he was that transparent. The last thing he wanted to do was worry anybody because he couldn’t get it together, couldn’t get over some silly imagined slight. But if Blaise asks directly like that, like he already knows what’s plaguing him, how could Draco lie to him, pretend it’s fine? 

“Back then, before I left, did you - Harry said-” Draco is stumbling over his words. He should have thought about what to say beforehand, should have prepared a speech. That won’t do, he needs to do this right. Draco takes a deep breath, starts over. “I don’t mean to accuse you of anything. Believe me when I say I don’t enjoy asking you this, needing you to tell me, but I need to hear it from you. Did you cheat on me, Blaise?” 

Blaise flinches as if Draco slapped him, shock visible on his face and moving back in one violent motion. Draco doesn’t know how to interpret that, but he feels relieved nonetheless for finally having asked. Like speaking the words out loud liberated him from having to carry their weight around. 

Blaise settles back down, sits down next to Draco and steeling himself. Nausea is rising up in him - he doesn’t want to hear what Blaise is going to say next, doesn’t want to but needs to. Blaise looks him in the eyes, a determined clench to his jaw, head tilted up in proud defiance. “Yes, I did.” 

Draco slaps him. He doesn’t even think about it, as soon as it registered that _yes, he did._ Rage is cursing through him, hurt and betrayal and broken trust. _Yes, he did_. Draco can’t believe it. “Why?” 

“Would you hear me out? Give me a chance to explain? I deserved that, but listen to me? Please?” Draco can only nod. He needs to know _why_, needs to know what happened. 

“First of all, please allow me to apologise. Words cannot express how _deeply sorry _I am. It is the biggest mistake I ever made, and I will regret it forever. I am sorry Draco, for hurting you, for throwing away what we had, for ruining everything.” He believes him. There is no doubt anymore - Blaise cheated on him and he regrets it. In a way, knowing that is a relief. In another way, Draco wishes he never knew, that Harry never said anything. 

_Ignorance is bliss_, they say. They are right. 

“I have no excuse. I was scared and didn’t think - a complete moron really. Things were getting serious between us and you were so happy, _I_ was so happy - it terrified me. How much I loved you, _still love you_. So, I did something impulsive and incredibly stupid. I tried to explain it to you, to beg your forgiveness - even though I’m not certain I deserve it - but you were gone too fast. You wouldn’t listen to me or slow down. I lost you. I lost you because I was _weak_ and _foolish_ and made a _horrible_ mistake. I never forgave myself for that.” Blaise has a faraway look on his face, eyes unfocused and full of pain. Draco thinks he deserves it, Draco is hurting - the least Blaise can do is hurt too. Blaise snaps out of his thoughts, looking back at him and giving him a crooked smile. 

“And then suddenly you were back - you didn’t look at me with hate and disgust, but love and joy. I didn’t understand it, couldn’t believe it and I felt terrible for being glad you suffered amnesia. I never stopped loving you, you know? It felt like a second chance - I didn’t even care that you were married. I saw that he meant _something_ to you, still does I think, and I did all I could to get you back anyway. I want to apologise for that as well. I hope it ultimately wasn’t me that had you two part on such bad terms. But I would do it again. For you I would. I was careful to stay respectful, not to cross the line, not to tempt you into adultery, even if it would have been only a formality.” Draco winces, remembers the almost kiss in the lake, all the touches that walked the line between friendly and romantic. 

“I tried to tell you - honestly, I did. You deserved the truth sooner and from me, you shouldn’t have had to learn it from Potter. I attempted several times, but then you would smile at me or talk about something that excites you and I - I couldn’t. I couldn’t hurt you again, couldn’t erase your smile. And I feared how you would look at me. It was _selfish_ and _wrong_ and I am _sorry_, for all of it.” Blaise keeps looking at Draco, doesn’t release any of the tension in him, doesn’t slump back like one might expect after a confession like this. 

He is waiting for Draco’s judgement. Draco doesn’t know what to tell him, he feels overwhelmed, numb. 

This is too much, pressing down on him, changing what he thought he knew and taking all the air from the room. He needs time to consider this, to think it over. 

All he knows right now is that he loves Blaise, that he trusted him, and Blaise betrayed him, lied to him, and hurt him. 

* * *

Pansy gives over her lipstick - a deep red, her favourite - into Draco’s hesitantly stretched out hand. As soon as his hands close around the container he snatches it back, as if scared she would change her mind or someone would take it from him. She was surprised when he asked her to borrow it, pleasantly, but surprised nonetheless. Draco has been strange lately, reclusive and not talking much, lost in his thoughts. Pansy worries about him - he can form stupid ideas when left to his own devices. 

“Are you okay? I have the feeling you don’t tell me anything anymore.” Draco looks at her, startled. Pansy didn’t mean to press him, wanted to let him come to her if he wanted to and not out of some twisted sense of obligation. 

Draco is quiet for a while and Pansy is half convinced he will leave without saying anything. “Did you know Blaise cheated on me? Is that why I left?” 

That is certainly unexpected. Draco looks at her like this is a test, like he knows she knew and wants to see how she reacts. Honestly, it would have been considerate of Blaise to warn her so she could prepare for this. But now, caught under Draco’s piercing stare and worried about saying the wrong thing and breaking him because he looks dangerously fragile, she is taken by surprise. But she won’t lie to him, not anymore. 

“I - I did. I know I should have told you, but Blaise promised he would, and I trusted him to keep his word.” Draco loses some of the edge at her words, softening and looking more tired than ready to pounce. Pansy wishes she could take the hurt from him, take everything that is pressing down on him and give him just one day of being happy. He hasn’t been happy nearly often enough these last few weeks. 

“He didn’t, I learnt from Harry. He says he is sorry, that he still loves me and made a mistake but wants to make up for it.” Pansy would kill Blaise, would slowly skin him and make him eat it. He promised he would tell him. She can’t imagine Potter was overly kind when he told Draco. 

She suppresses her anger, barely. It won’t do any good right now. “Do you want my advice?” 

“Yes please.” 

“I think he honestly is sorry. I think you could work this out. It won’t be easy or fun, but it is possible. You also don’t owe him forgiveness, aren’t obligated to do anything. You can break up with him, which would be hard in a different way.” Pansy thought about this often enough, knowing it was inevitable and that someone would need to offer reasonable solutions. She is glad Draco came to her instead of deciding anything guided by hurt and anger. 

“I don’t want to lose him Pansy, I can’t.” Draco is still clutching the lipstick, holding it close to his chest like it is the only thing keeping him up. It is a heartbreaking sight, Draco lost in the room with nothing to hold onto and no one to help him. Pansy goes to him, hugs him close and squeezes him tightly. He slowly relaxes into her, leaning his head on her shoulder. 

Pansy draws small circles on his back, feeling his steady breathing and lowly talking into his ear. “Then don’t. Work for it. Decide what you want, friendship or a romantic relationship. Think about how you could achieve either of those things. Talk to Blaise. There are many ways to go from here, but I don’t think either of you wants to lose the other.” 

“Would it be terribly selfish to break up simply because I want to focus on myself?” His voice is small and uncertain where he whispers into her neck. Pansy has to strain to hear it, maybe wouldn’t have at all if she hadn’t felt him speak. 

“Darling, no, of course it wouldn’t. There is nothing wrong with focusing on oneself for some time. And you need to figure things out more desperately than most of us at the moment.” 

Draco is quiet for a long time, not saying anything but not moving away either. Pansy keeps drawing circles, gives him time to process that. 

When he talks again, he sounds surer of himself. Pansy is glad, she hates seeing him doubt himself. “I have been talking to Hermione, Harry’s friend. She used to be mine too. She wouldn’t tell me anything about Harry, said after signing the papers he doesn’t concern me anymore. I guess she is right. But she tells me a lot about how things used to be. I think I want to explore that more, find out who I was, see if I like that version of myself.” 

“That is wonderful Draco, truly, I am happy for you. But you don’t have to be exactly like that again, or anything if you don’t want to. And promise not to leave again. I _will _hunt you down this time.” Draco chuckles, but she has no doubt he knows she is being serious; she won’t allow him to run again. 


	13. Chapter 13

Harry looks around the house. It feels strange, empty without Draco, temporary, with moving boxes strewn everywhere. Harry packed everything that reminded him of Draco, neatly put in boxes to shut it away. It didn’t work, he sees Draco everywhere, living in the house like a ghost. He might have to sell it after all. And really, what does it matter anymore? He lost his husband, the love of his life, why shouldn’t he lose his home too? 

Hermione told him he needs to get out more, that these kinds of thoughts aren’t healthy, and he needs to _socialise_. Harry doesn’t want to. He meets with his friends, spends most of his time with the kids - he doesn’t need to go out more. Especially because, when Hermione says that, she doesn’t mean to meet new friends, she means he should _date_. She would tell him the only way to get over it is to go out there, after some time taken to grieve of course. She even shows him studies on the subject, as if his reluctance comes from a lack of trust in her. But while Hermione thinks he’s had enough time, Harry disagrees. It’s been a constant fight these last few weeks. 

It doesn’t get better with the dates she keeps arranging for him. She would brightly tell him that Millicent is lovely if one gives her a chance and gets past her gruff demeanour, that Justin is a sweet guy though he talks a little too much, that Penelope is highly intelligent and they would be sure to have interesting conversations. Harry would sigh, Ron would gently remind her that they agreed to leave Harry alone for a while and Hermine would say that he couldn’t continue like he was. 

Harry, of course, went on the dates. After dragging them through that mess with Draco and totally neglecting their friendship and behaving like a pathetic sod, he can’t deny them. But he can protest, and he does, loudly and often. 

He’s gone on every date Hermione’s arranged for him, always finding something that doesn’t fit, always comparing them to Draco and finding them lacking. Harry knows he isn’t fair on either of them, but he can’t help it. 

He thought about how Draco would have laughed at the joke that Millicent didn’t even react to. 

He thought about how Draco would have ordered the soup - only to eat half of Harry’s food later because he doesn’t like soup - where Justin ordered steak. 

He thought about how Draco would have blushed and smiled when Harry complimented his wit, whereas Penelope waved it off as a given. 

None of those reactions were wrong or bad, except that they weren’t what Draco would have done, and that is fault enough for Harry. 

Despite every experience so far being frustrating and disappointing, Harry can feel himself changing. He compares his date less to Draco, thinks about him less, doesn’t miss him all the time anymore. It isn’t easy, he isn’t over Draco, but he is slowly moving on. Harry isn’t sure he likes that. 

* * *

Draco is nervous. He keeps fidgeting with his jacket - too thin for the cold wind but his only thicker jacket didn’t go with the rest of his outfit, no way was he compromising his looks for something silly like the weather - moving to keep warm and trying to build up the nerve to knock on the door. It shouldn’t be difficult - it’s only a door. Draco knows there is a metaphor in there somewhere, about opening and closing a lot of doors in his life lately, but he is too cold to think about them. 

He shouldn’t have been too proud to accept his parents’ money when moving out, he could have used it now. Turns out the stereotype of the starving artist isn’t a stereotype after all. Pansy told him that when she helped him decorate his new place, his mother told him that when he finally brought up the courage to inform them he dropped law and wanted to study art, his father told him that when he tried to press the check into his hand. Even Blaise told him that when they last talked. Things are still strained between them, but they are both too stubborn and too attached to each other to give up their friendship. 

Draco has frozen for long enough, he is being ridiculous. Stepping up the stairs, he raises a hand to knock - as the door suddenly opens. 

The first thing that Draco registers are those green eyes, exactly like he remembers them and yet not quite the same. His mind is slower to process the rest, the black hair still falling in his face, untamed and glorious, his mouth slightly parted in surprise, how close he stands. Finally, it all settles together - Harry is standing before him. Harry was just leaving. 

That isn’t how this was supposed to go. Harry was supposed to have time to listen to Draco smoothly bringing forth points and proof as to why they should go on a date. 

“Draco, is that really - what are you doing here?” Draco takes a step back, needing some distance to clear his thoughts but misses their closeness immediately, moving back in. 

“I came to see you, obviously. Why else would I be here, literally on your doorstep?” He smiles up at him, hoping to sooth the shock and charm Harry into agreeing to this absurd idea. He doesn’t know what he would do if he doesn’t. If Draco knows Harry at all - and he likes to think he does - he will. 

Harry’s laugh sounds strained, but it is there. Draco counts that as a good sign. “_Obviously_. I really need you to tell me though, I don’t want to be late for my date.” 

Draco winces, steps back again. _His date_. He doesn’t know what he expected - that Harry’s life stopped when he left it? Draco knows he can be self-centred, but this is a new high. Or low, maybe, not that it matters right now. 

“Oh, I didn’t mean to - please, I don’t want you to be late. We can do this some other time. Enjoy your date.” Draco turns, knowing he wouldn’t be back. Harry has moved on, he should be happy for him. Harry deserves someone who makes him happy, he couldn’t expect him to wait around should he change his mind and want him back. It was a stupid thought, causing him hurt that wasn’t necessary. 

Harry grabs his arm, stops him from leaving. “No, don’t you dare leave again. I’m sorry I said that, it’s not a date, just some friends.” 

Draco looks at him, judging whether he is serious or just taking pity on him. His other hand is tangled in his hair, an endearing nervous habit Draco missed more than should be reasonable, and he is meeting his eyes. Not lying then. Draco smiles at him. 

“I don’t want to cause you to miss those either, friends are important, you know.” He had intended for the words to sound teasing, but the wind picked up again, making him shiver violently in the unexpected chill. 

“Oh for - you are _freezing_ Draco! Why didn’t you say anything?” Before he can protest, that it is fine, that he doesn’t actually mind so much, Harry has enveloped him in a cosy warm jacket, big enough to hide half of his face. He is attacked with Harry’s scent, filling his nose and thoughts, making him dizzy and smile like a loon. 

“Thank you, Harry.” Draco is peering out from where the jacket folds over his face, smiling sweetly and doing his best to not look like he is being eaten by the giant jacket but rather huddled in comfortable warmth. Harry smiles at him, reaches out as if to touch before quickly pulling away again. Draco pouts at him but accepts that, he must be very confused. 

Harry awkwardly clears his throat and Draco hides his smile in the jacket. “You can walk with me if you want, tell me why you wanted to see me on the way.”

They walk in companionable silence for a while, saying nothing and simply soaking up each other’s presence. 

“I wanted to see you again. That is why I am here, to ask if we could - if you want to -” Draco trails off. This is harder than he thought it would be, than it has any right to be. This is _Harry_, talking to him used to be easy. And now Draco can’t even ask him out. 

Harry, the git, must know exactly what he means but only smirks at him. “Yes, what did you want to ask, Draco?” 

Draco glares at him, but the challenge helps. Harry doesn’t think he can ask? Draco will show him, Harry will be so impressed that he has no other chance but to agree. Draco forces Harry to a stop, pulling him around so he can look at him for this very important question. “Harry Potter, will you go on a date with me?” 

Harry stares at him for a moment, unmoving and disbelieving. Draco starts doubting under that stare. Did he read the signs wrong? Does Harry not want this as much as Draco does? Just because Harry wasn’t on his way to a date doesn’t mean he isn’t in a relationship. Maybe he is with someone and was too kind to tell him. Draco has made a fool of himself, asking Harry something like that. Of course, he _doesn’t_ want to. They last saw each other signing their divorce papers, last really talked when they had an ugly fight. Draco had been a mess at that time, behaving like a bastard towards Harry, who wanted nothing but to help. 

“Yes, I want to go on a date with you.” Now it’s Draco’s turn to stare. Then he hugs him, standing on his tiptoes to compensate for the height difference, throwing his arms around him and pulling him close. He can’t believe it - _he agreed_. Harry is laughing, putting his arms behind him and holding him even tighter. Suddenly he is shifting them, lifting Draco from his feet and ignoring the indignant squeak, spinning him around. Draco makes more undignified noises, Harry keeps laughing and the moment is perfect, filled with joy and relief and the feeling of returning home. It doesn’t make sense, but Draco blames being helplessly swung through the air for that. 

Harry sets him down gently, still chuckling to himself, reaching out to smooth Draco’s hair. He tries to scowl at him but can’t bring himself to do it, not when Harry is finally smiling like that. Draco didn’t think he would ever see that smile again, not as bright as he would when consciously smiling, but smaller, crooked, filled with fondness and affection and something Draco could never name. 

Suddenly the weight of reality, of their past and the time they spend apart, rushes down on them. They both take a step back, awkward and nervous again. It is stupid, unreasonable, they were completely at ease not even a minute ago. 

“Did you have anything specific in mind, for our date?” Harry smiles at him, valiantly trying to fend off the discomfort creeping up on them. 

Draco blushes at the question, not looking at him as he answers. “Honestly? I didn’t think you would agree. I was sure you would close the door in my face. I am glad you didn’t, you can’t even imagine _how _glad_._ How about that little Mexican place you like?” 

Harry’s entire face lights up at the suggestion and Draco congratulates himself for thinking of it. “That would be - wait, how do you know about that? Do you remember?” 

He looks so excited, so happy - Draco hates having to destroy that expression. But it can’t be helped, he would learn sooner or later so it would be best to dash hope early on. 

“No, I don’t think they will ever come back. I talked to Hermione, though, I figured she would be the most reliable source for information. Don’t worry, she refused to tell me a thing about how you were doing. Said I should ask you myself if I wanted to know and stay away if I don’t really care. She’s a good friend, your Hermione.” 

Harry’s face falls at the admission, but it quickly brightens again. “She really is, yes, I don’t appreciate her enough. But she will have to wait, our date comes first. How about we don’t go to the Mexican place, what if we go somewhere new, make new memories?” 

The idea sparks something in Draco, ideas of places he wants to visit, things he wants to experience. “Yes, that would be lovely, a perfect third first date.” 

“Third?” Harry frowns at him, visibly going over their dates again. There are three, Draco is absolutely sure. The first date, the very first he only knows from retelling and pictures; the second date, when Harry took him out to that Italian place; and the third – and last first, hopefully - date, today. 

Harry offers his hand and Draco takes it without hesitation and lets himself be led around the city. He doesn’t know if Harry has a place in mind or if they are wandering aimlessly, but so long as Harry is next to him, Draco is content. 

  



End file.
